"There is something else that we don't know about, Mr. Mason. If Adler was at the wheel of that car and he got out and left the girl to take the responsibility, there was someone who forced him to do it, someone who was hidden in that car, either down on the floor in back, or in the trunk, or somewhere. Or perhaps someone who was following along behind."

  "Wait a minute," Tragg said. "That is a theory. The evidence shows a lot of cars stopped almost at once. There was quite a mix-up."

  "Someone," Mrs. Greeley said with calm sincerity, "forced Adler to get out of that car. Someone took him away from the scene of the accident, and that someone forced him to keep quiet. When you have found who that someone was, you will have found who killed my husband, and... and..." She began to sob – after a few moments got control of herself and said, "I am sorry. I am pretty much unstrung."

  Mason glanced at Tragg. "I don't think we need her any more, do we, Lieutenant?"

  Tragg shook his head.

  Mrs. Greeley gave Mason her hand. "When I first met you – well, I found myself liking you, and yet you made me very angry. I ... I hope we understand each other better now."

  She gave his hand a quick pressure, smiled at Tragg, nodded to Drake, and left the office, walking rapidly down the corridor.

  Drake, listening to the sound of her diminishing footsteps said, "If I had been Greeley, I wouldn't have been playing around. Gosh, Perry, you certainly talked a sermon."

  "Did I miss something?" Tragg asked.

  "Did you miss something? I shall say you did. A five-minute talk on the philosophy of life and death I will never forget."

  Tragg glanced at Mason, elevated his eyebrows quizzically.

  Mason said apologetically, "She had had an overdose of this all-for-the-best business. I tried to give her a little of my own philosophy about life and death."

  Tragg said, "Well, I have got some news. I couldn't get up here sooner because I was camped in a telephone booth down in the restaurant. I had headquarters half crazy, but I got action. A man wearing a tuxedo suit chartered a plane to go from San Francisco to Fresno early on the morning of Wednesday the nineteenth. Two o'clock to be exact. Get that, Mason? At two in the morning."

  "What time would that have put him in Fresno?" Mason asked.

  "Oh, within an hour or so."

  "And then what?"

  "We are tracing him from Fresno," Tragg said. "We should be able to get a line on him."

  "Get the name under which the ticket was sold?" Mason asked.

  Tragg grinned. "L. C. Spinney."

  "How soon can you get something from Fresno?"

  "It should be coming in any time now," Tragg said.

  "Headquarters knows you are here? They can reach you on the telephone if anything turns up?"

  "Sure."

  Mason said, "Well, we are commencing to get it unscrambled. This all begins to fit into a perfect picture."

  "That Warfield woman," Tragg said, "has simply disappeared into thin air. I don't like that. A simple, unsophisticated, working woman couldn't have walked out of a hotel in a city where she had no connections..."

  Drake said, "You aren't overlooking that cafeteria friend of hers, are you?"

  "No, I am not," Tragg said. "We have interviewed her. She says she doesn't know a thing. We are going to keep a watch on her. We found out this much after Mrs. Warfield got that cafeteria job lined up, someone came in, flashed a buzzer, and said Warfield was a convict who had escaped, that Mrs. Warfield was sending him money, and asked a lot of questions. That naturally cooked Mrs. Warfield's chance of getting the job. The cafeteria didn't want the wives of any escaped criminals..."

  Mason interrupted, "Then that man must have known Mrs. Warfield had the promise of that job. Only Spinney knew that."

  Tragg smiled. "The man's description," he said, "fits Greeley."

  Drake whistled.

  Tragg said to Mason, "It is certainly beginning to look as though you were right about Homan..." He broke off as the sound of quick steps in the corridor approached the office door.

  "We are having a procession tonight," Drake said.

  "Probably Della," Mason assured him.

  He opened the door. Della Street, walking rapidly, bustled into the room, said, "Hello, everybody. Hope I didn't keep you waiting... Oh, good evening, Lieutenant."

  Mason smiled and said, "For the moment, Della, Tragg is one of the bunch. There have been momentous and important developments. The police agree that Stephane Claire is innocent of the negligent homicide. She is exonerated from driving the car, and, believe it or not, I am cooperating with the police."

  Della Street looked down at the suitcase, then over at the shirt on Mason's desk. "How come?" she asked.

  "Mrs. Greeley," Mason said. "It was her husband's. She found it in the soiled clothes after his death."

  "Oh-oh," Della Street said, and then after a moment, "I presume then what I have found out doesn't amount to anything?"

  Mason said, "On the contrary, it is more important than ever." He turned to Tragg and said, "She was getting some gossip on Homan."

  "I would like to hear it," Tragg said, studying Della Street with quite obvious approval.

  "Go ahead, Della," Mason said.

  She said, "La-de-dah, am I Hollywood!" She made a little gesture with her hand. "I mean really, you know. It's terrific. That is, I think I have got something here."

  "Come on," Mason said, "unload the gossip."

  "Don't we eat?"

  Mason glanced uneasily toward the telephone. "Tragg has had dinner," he said, "and he is waiting for a report . . ."

  "Oh, not dinner," Tragg interposed. "It was just a snack. I am about ready for a beefsteak. I can telephone headquarters and let them know where to get in touch with me. After all, I am really supposed to be off duty now. Only on this job, you don't keep hours."

  "Personally, I am famished," Della Street admitted. "That is, I mean really famished. I think the idea of a steak would be simply terrific. Oh, definitely."

  Mason picked up a law book, held it poised, and said, "Cut it before I brain you."

  Her eyes were sparkling with mischief. "Don't be a dope," she said. "I mean this is the weanie of the evening."

  "Come on," Drake announced, getting to his feet. "I have been waiting long enough for a chance to eat on Perry and dance with his secretary."

  "In my capacity as official representative of the law," Tragg interposed sternly, "I am afraid I shall have to preempt your claim."

  "Age before beauty, my lad," Drake said.

  "Don't I get in on this?" Mason asked.

  "Go on," Drake told him. "You are the host. You are supposed to see that your guests are properly entertained."

  "Socko," Della Street announced. "Colossal!"

  "Come on," Mason said, getting to his feet.

  "It is drizzling outside," Della Street told him.

  "Uh-huh," Mason said, putting on his hat and coat.

  Tragg stood watching him with speculative eyes. "You know, Mason," he said, apropos of nothing, shaking a cigarette from a package, "you are damn deep."

  Drake said, "You don't know the half of it."

  Mason switched out the lights, shepherded them out into the corridor, saw that the door was closed and locked. They started trooping down toward the elevator.

  "Good place over at the Adirondack," Della Street said.

  "Oh, let's try some place that has more life," Mason said. "That's staid and stodgy."

  "Suits me all right," Tragg announced. "Do I get the first dance, Miss Street?"

  "That will depend," she said, "on how I feel after I have had the first steak. Right now, I am simply caving in."

  "I had the first claim," Drake warned.

  Mason said, "Remember I am painfully conscious of my duties as host, but I get the last dance, Della. Let them fight over the first."

  She turned and flashed him a quick understanding smile. Drake sighed. "There we go, Lieutenant. Our ship is scuttled before we have even got it away from the pier. As you have remarked before, Mason is a deep one."

  "Well, where are we going to eat?" Della asked.

  "Oh, let us try the Tangerine," Mason said. "It is good and lively, and it has the advantage of being within three blocks of the office."

  "We can walk it," Tragg said.

  "Not in this drizzle," Della Street announced. "It's really commencing to rain. I mean definitely, I really do!"

  Mason made a grab for her, but she laughingly eluded him, slipped around the corner, and ran the rest of the way down the corridor. As he chased after her, he had a fleeting glimpse of Tragg making silly, futile gasps at thin air. Mason caught up with her at the elevator, and his arm encircled her waist. Struggling a little, she managed to move close to him and said in a low whisper, "What is wrong with your hat, Chief?"

  "Huh?" he asked, surprised.

  "Tragg was looking at it when you took it out of the closet."

  "Oh," Mason said, and pressed the button for the elevator. "The lid is going to blow off tonight. Keep sober."

  The others came walking up. Della Street twisted away from Mason's grasp just as the elevator slid to a stop, and the quartet trooped in with much laughing and joking.

  When they reached the street, it was raining hard, and they stood in the shelter of the lobby for nearly five minutes before Mason was able to get a cab. The Tangerine however, because of the rain, had plenty of vacant tables, and a deferential headwaiter escorted them to a choice location near the side of the dance floor.

  Mason said, "As a perfect host, Della, I will sit with my back to the floor show, place you between Tragg and... where the devil is she?"

  Tragg turned around. "She was here a moment ... Oh."

  He stood looking out on the dance floor to where Paul Drake and Della Street were whirling around.

  "There you are," Tragg said, seating himself. "The private detectives beat the regulars to it every time. Guess I shall have to see about getting that guy's license revoked after all."

  "Steak dinner?" Mason asked.

  "Uh-huh. Think I will telephone and see if headquarters has any news."

  "Cocktail?" Mason asked.

  Tragg hesitated.

  "You are not on duty," Mason told him.

  "Well, all right, make it a martini."

  "Think we will probably have four customers on that," Mason said as Tragg threaded his way through the dancers toward the telephone booth.

  A waiter approached Mason. "Four dry martinis, four de luxe steak dinners. Make the steaks medium rare except for the gentleman sitting over there, who wants his well-done, and I wish you would keep that dinner moving right along. Will you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mason settled back in his chair, watching the dancers. Tragg returned from the telephone booth, and Mason flashed a quick glance at the officer's face. Tragg's smile indicated that as yet he had received no news of the crumpled figure which lay balanced precariously over the edge of the bathtub in the Adirondack Hotel.

  "News?" Mason asked.

  "I shall say. It was a cinch to pick up our man in the tuxedo at Fresno. He got off the plane, made inquiries about renting a car which he could drive himself. He couldn't get a car until about eight-thirty in the morning when one of the places opened up. He rented a car, gave the name of L. C. Spinney, drove the car one hundred and sixty-five miles, and brought it back about two o'clock. He walked out, and evaporated into thin air. We lose him from then on. The description is Greeley."

  The dance music stopped. Paul Drake and Della Street came toward the table.

  Mason said abruptly, "Cover the garages that rent cars with drivers."

  "What is the angle?" Tragg asked.

  "Don't you see?" Mason asked.

  "No, hanged if I do."

  Mason said, "Bet you the dinners that you will find he appeared at a garage which rented cars with drivers before three o'clock in the afternoon and hired a driver to take him exactly eighty-two miles up into the mountains. He got out there."

  Paul Drake and Della Street were now at the table, Drake holding Della Street's chair.

  Tragg said, "I am not going to bet you the price of the dinners because I am a poor working man. I can't pass expenses on to a rich client the way you can. I can't make the compensation for my services sufficiently elastic to cover all the traffic will stand. And furthermore, I think you are bluffing."

  "Go ahead and call me," Mason said.

  Tragg said, "Well, I will call headquarters and have them check with the Fresno police on it. If it is right, will you tell me how you reason it out?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Tragg threaded his way once more among the tables and belated dancers who were coming off the dance floor. Della Street asked, "What is it, Chief?"

  Mason said, "I think we are on the home stretch."

  "Don't clean the case up too soon," Drake jokingly remarked. "I am getting paid by the day, and I never do get these delightful dinners and a chance to dance with Della except when you are on a case and have an expense account."

  Mason jerked his head toward Della. "Is she still Hollywood, Paul?"

  "Oh, definitely," Della said.

  "Come on, brat," Mason said. "Tell us what you found out."

  "Here is Tragg coming back."

  "It's all right. He is one of the family," Mason said, raising his voice just enough so that Tragg could hear as he approached the table.

  "What now?" Tragg asked.

  "Della is about to relay us the dirt from Hollywood."

  The waiter appeared with their cocktails.

  "Here is to crime," Mason said, looking at Tragg across the rim of the glass.

  "And the catching of criminals," Tragg amended before he drank.

  "By fair means or foul," Della Street volunteered.

  They took the first long sip from their cocktails, then, as they lowered their glasses, Tragg said, "I see you have got Miss Street educated to your outlook."

  "Why not?" Mason asked. "A criminal doesn't play cricket. He accomplishes the results he wants by any means that are handy. Why shouldn't he be tripped up by the same means?"

  "Because it isn't legal."

  "Oh, bunk," Mason said impatiently. "You folks are either fools or hypocrites when you say that."

  "No, we are not," Tragg said earnestly. "The whole structure of the law has to be a dignified, imposing edifice and built on firm foundations, if it is going to stand. Whenever you violate the law, you are tearing down a part of that structure, regardless of what goal you may want to achieve."

  "All right," Mason said, grinning, "why not tear parts of it down?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well," Mason said, "suppose you are on the roof and a murderer is sneaking out through the basement. You can't stop him by yelling at him, but if you take a loose brick out of the chimney, drop it, and hit him on the head, it stops him, and why isn't it perfectly justifiable? After all, you have only taken a loose brick from that dignified structure you have been talking about and ..."

  "Well," Tragg said, "it is not exactly that way. It..."

  "The hell it isn't," Mason interrupted. "A man has a joint where he sells liquor illegally, but he gives you all the low-down on the people that come into that joint. It is in the interests of the police to keep the place going. They know the man is selling liquor, and that the sale is unlawful, and after regular closing hours, but they wink at it."

  "Well, in that case you have to admit that you are getting something which is very important in return for a very minor infraction of the law."

  "Sure," Mason said, "you are taking the loose brick out of the chimney of your imposing structure and dropping it on the head of the murderer."

  Tragg threw up his hands. "I should have known better than to argue with a lawyer. And, remember, Miss Street, the next dance is mine."

  "Okay."

  "And in the meantime, what about Homan?" Mason asked.

  "My dear," she said to Perry, pitching her voice in the high, rapid key of a woman who is a natural-born gossip, and talking at a high rate of speed, "you have absolutely no idea about how that man has come to the front! It has been terrific. I mean really. He started in as a writer on an obscure assignment and on a play that was stinko. Then out of a clear sky he shot up into a big job, and I mean gravy."

  "What is back of it?" Mason asked. "And can that Hollywood chatter before I crown you."

  "A woman."

  "What woman?"

  "No one knows."

  "How do they know it is a woman?"

  "Because Homan never plays around. He lives what my informant naïvely describes as a monastic life. I wouldn't know what she meant."

  "Careful," Drake warned. "That remark might be twisted."

  "Yes, and you have some of the best little remark-twisters in the world gathered right around this table," Tragg interposed.

  She laughed. "Well, anyway, Homan is something of a unique character around Hollywood, but doesn't always stay around Hollywood. Occasionally he vanishes, and when he vanishes – tra la tra la!"

  "Where does he go?" Mason asked.

  "He goes to some place where he can be all alone with his work," Della Street said with a demure manner which was purposely exaggerated. Her eyes were large and round, gazing above the heads of the diners on the far ceiling. She pursed her lips and said mincingly, "He is always trying to get away somewhere where he can work. He is a man who simply can't be disturbed. He breaks from the studio to go home and shut himself in his study where he will be free to concentrate, and then his nerves get so frayed by the environment of civilization that he has to jump in his car and go alone into the solitude."

  "Alone?" Mason asked.

  "Alone," she said, "definitely, positively alone. I mean really – and I do mean really."

  The dance music struck up, and Tragg said, "We shall leave Mr. Homan's concentrational celibacy for another time, Miss Street. But right now you are in demand for another and more important matter."

  He walked around to stand back of her chair.

  Mason said, "Don't let him pump you, Della."

  "Don't be foolish. He is not the sort who would do that, are you, Lieutenant?"

  "Not unless I thought I could get away with it."

  Drake said, "Watch him, Perry. I think he is a viper. You should better forbid her to dance with him at all, and let her keep on dancing with me. At least, I am safe."