He once more dialed Operator, said, “Connect me with Police Headquarters at once, please.”

  “Hello,” Mason said as soon as he had an answer. “This is Jason Bartsler. I’m at my residence at 2816 Pacific Heights Drive. There’s a masked man trying to get in the back door. Send radio officers out right away.”

  The man at the other end of the line seemed strangely unexcited. “What’s your telephone number, Mr. Bartsler?”

  “Westgate 9643,” Mason snapped.

  “A masked man, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see him?”

  “Yes. Hurry! Send men out, or he’ll get away.”

  “This is Mr. Jason Bartsler?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re talking from your phone there at that number?”

  “Yes. For heaven sake, send somebody out here! What’s the idea?”

  “Sorry,” the voice said, “but you hang up and I’ll call you right back for a confirmation. Orders just received from Sergeant Holcomb not to pay any attention to any calls from your telephone unless they were verified. Seems as though some lawyer is trying to stampede the police into rushing a car out there so he can get some publicity for his theory on a murder case. You understand, Mr. Bartsler. Just hang up and I’ll call you back. Westgate 9643. Okay, hang up.”

  Mason slammed the phone up and cursed under his breath.

  “What’s the matter?” Della asked.

  “That damn fool Holcomb,” Mason stormed. “So darned afraid that I’m going to slip a fast one over on him by planting some evidence and having him discover it under such dramatic circumstances that it’ll make the newspapers.”

  “What,” Della asked, “do we do?”

  “Paul Drake’s on his way out here, or should be if he’s got his stomach full. Lord, I hope he doesn’t get the call just as he’s being served the steak. Switch out the lights, Della.”

  “You mean all the lights?”

  “All the ones that are here. You take your end of the room. I’ll take this end.”

  Mason picked out one light switch and Della Street turned out a floor light.

  “There are lights in those other rooms,” she said.

  “That’s all right,” Mason told her, “just turn out the lights here.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “We’d be too good targets for anyone who wanted to shoot through a window.”

  “Good heavens, Chief! Do you mean there’s that much danger?”

  “There may be,” Mason said. “I don’t know just what we’re getting into, but I’m beginning to get the whole picture now.”

  Della Street said, “Get over on the davenport. I’m coming over and sit beside you. There, there, Robert. It’s all right. This is Della Street. She is a friend of your mother’s. Do you want to go and see Mother?”

  This brought fresh wails from the child. “I want my mommie,” he sobbed.

  “You’ve been on a visit?” Mason asked.

  “I want my mommie,” the childish treble repeated somewhat sleepily.

  Della Street said, “Come on, Chief. Tell me what’s happening.”

  Mason said, “The whole case was laid out like a pattern, and I didn’t see it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I failed to take into consideration one thing so simple that it escaped my attention.”

  “What?”

  “The time element.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Mason said, “Go back to the night of the twenty-fifth. Diana came home from her automobile ride. It was something after ten o’clock.”

  “Well, what of it? I mean why is that significant?”

  “She met Mrs. Kennard. Mrs. Kennard had just driven up. Diana went upstairs. She found Carl in her room. They had an argument. Carl very calmly, very efficiently popped her one in the eye and then walked out. Diana got a little hysterical. She put cold compresses on her face. Then she took a bath, soaked her swollen feet, dried herself, put oh her shoes because she had neglected to take her slippers into the bathroom with her, put on a housecoat, and then had the altercation with Mrs. Bartsler which resulted in her running downstairs. She put on her coat which was in the coat closet, then started out and heard voices. She felt she was pretty conspicuous with her swollen eye, and waited in the closet for some ten or fifteen minutes for the coast to clear so she could see Mr. Bartsler. Then after ten or fifteen minutes when she thought everything was all right, she opened the door to step out and found Bartsler and Glenmore just escorting Mrs. Kennard to the door. She didn’t want to be conspicuous, have Mrs. Kennard see her black eye so she hurried out of the door ahead of everyone, and walked down to the corner drugstore. That was when she decided she’d go to her apartment and spend the night there. She found she didn’t even have telephone money with her, so she started walking. She got to the apartment and didn’t have her key. She wouldn’t ring the manager to get her up and be admitted with a passkey because she was so painfully conscious that she was wearing a long fur coat, a housecoat underneath that, her shoes and nothing else. So she went to the bus depot and waited for Mildred to return to the apartment. From time to time, she’d call Mildred with a nickel she’d borrowed from a total stranger.”

  “Well?” Della asked as Mason ceased talking. Mason said, “Fit that together, Della. Put the time element together. Patch that up with what we know now, and you’ll see why it’s so absolutely, utterly imperative for us to get to Jason Bartsler’s place and … ” At the sound of the name the childish cries began again. “Yes, dear,” Della said. “You mustn’t talk now. You must close your eyes and go sleepy-by.”

  “Turn on the light.”

  “No it’s your bedtime.”

  “I want my mommie.”

  “After a while, perhaps, dear.”

  “And Auntie Mildred.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You’re a nice lady.”

  “Well, now you go to sleep.”

  “I want the mans to tell me a story.”

  “No,” Della Street said, “the man is busy now. He’s thinking,”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s thinking.”

  “What for?”

  “About lots of very important things. You must keep quiet now.”

  “Tell me a story.”

  “I don’t know any stories, honey.”

  “Tell about Jack and the Beanstalk.”

  “I don’t know it very well.”

  “My mommie knows all about Jack and the Beanstalk.”

  “Yes, dear. But you mustn’t talk now.”

  “Turn on the light.”

  “No, we have to be in the dark. Would you like to take a ride in an automobile after awhile?”

  Mason got up and walked over to the darkened window. He raised the shade, looked out into the yard.

  “Chief, hadn’t you better come away from that window?”

  “I want to see Drake when he comes,” Mason said. “Providing he comes. Good Lord! What’s holding him up? Isn’t he … Wait a minute. Here are some headlights—coming around the corner … . Now wait a minute, Della. Sit tight. We’re not absolutely certain this is Paul Drake. Hold everything. I want to get those lights out in the hall. I don’t want to go to the door and stand silhouetted against the light.”

  Mason jerked open the door to the lighted corridor, switched out the lights, then walked cautiously to the front door. He turned the knob, opened it a few inches.

  Paul Drake’s characteristic figure, moving now with a rapidity which seemed altogether foreign to his lazy, drawling, good nature, debouched from the car and sprinted up the walk.

  Mason called over his shoulder, “Okay, Della, come on. Make it snappy!”

  Mason pulled the door open, said, “’Lo, Paul. Got a gun?”

  “Gosh no, Perry. What’s the matter?”

  “Never mind. Let’s get going. Della has the baby. Careful not to stumble, Della.”

  “What’s the matter with the lights?” Drake asked. “There’s lights on at the back of the house. Can’t you turn these … ”

  “No, no,” Mason said sharply. “No lights, Paul. Let’s get out of here!”

  “What is this, a kidnapping?”

  “Next thing to it,” Mason said. “Okay, Della, let me help you down the stairs. Careful now … . You get in the back seat … . Okay, Paul, get in that door. I’ll drive.”

  “You would!” Drake groaned. “You’ll wreck the bus! This thing isn’t accustomed to your type of driving. You let me … ”

  “Get in on that side,” Mason ordered sharply. “I’m driving.”

  Drake sighed, climbed in the right-hand door. Mason jerked open the left-hand door, slid in behind the steering wheel, slammed the door shut, stepped on the starter, and had the car in second gear almost before the motor had caught.

  “Hold your hats,” Drake said grimly to Della Street. “Here we go!”

  The car lurched away from the curb, gathered momentum, screamed around the corner and leapt forward as Mason slammed it back into high gear.

  “Hang on to that baby, Della,” Mason warned.

  “I’m hanging,” Della said.

  The child cried delightedly and held on to Della for dear life.

  “Shut up,” Paul Drake called back over his shoulder. “You’re too young to know the facts of life, or what this goof at the wheel is capable of doing. For the love of Mike, Perry, have a heart. Where are we going?”

  “Jason Bartsler’s residence.”

  “Provided the bus holds together that long and nothing gets in our way,” Drake said half humorously. “If you really want to save tires for me, Perry, just take those other corners on two wheels. It’ll go faster that way—like a bicycle—and it’ll save wear and tear on the other two … . Hey, you! I didn’t really mean it. For the love of Mike, Perry. Take it easy! Slow down!”

  From the back seat Della Street heaved a sigh of relief. “Well,” she said, “that’ll be the last corner until just before we get to the Bartsler house.”

  The little boy shrieked with delight. “Whee-eee-ee,” he cried.

  “Speak for yourself, son,” Drake said over his shoulder.

  Della Street laughed, but her laugh was nervous.

  Drake said, “When the office telephoned me, Perry, they gave me some new information about that letter. Mildred got a kid on a bicycle to deliver it, gave him half a dollar. He told his folks when he read about the murder. He saw her picture and thought he recognized it, then when he read the address … My Gosh, Perry, take it easy!”

  Mason held the throttle down close to the floorboard, piloted the car with smooth skill, disregarding boulevard stops as well as traffic signals, winding in and out through what little traffic there was on the boulevard. The youngster in the back seat insisted upon standing up, and Della Street was kept busy holding him steady. Paul Drake held on in grim silence.

  From behind them came the blaze of a red spotlight, the sound of a siren.

  Drake turned around, said laconically, “Okay, Perry, you’ve got a customer.”

  Mason poured throttle into the motor. “It’s only another four or five blocks. We haven’t time to stop and explain.”

  The police car behind roared into speed, accelerating as Mason was accelerating. The sound of the siren became a high- pitched screaming that froze traffic in its tracks, gave Mason more of an opportunity to urge his car into even greater speed.

  The police car gained and then gained no more. The two cars raced along the boulevard keeping their respective distances.

  “They’re going to start shooting at tires pretty quick,” Drake said. “It isn’t so bad when they shoot at the driver. They always go high; but when they shoot at a wheel they invariably hit a passenger.”

  Mason said, “Brace yourself. This is the corner.”

  He swung wide, pressed his foot on the brake pedal, released it, pressed again, released, then leaned against the wheel.

  The tires burnt long skid marks into the pavement. The scream of friction-burnt rubber was audible above the noise of the siren. The car skidded, straightened with a neck-snapping jerk as the wheels once more gripped the pavement. The car went forward like an arrow. Another two blocks and Mason swung in to the curb and slammed on the brake.

  Behind them, the police car screamed to a stop. Mason had the door open, was running up the walk toward the residence of Jason Bartsler.

  From the police car came a gruff command. “Halt, or we’ll let you have it.”

  Mason turned. “Hurry up, you damn fool,” he shouted. “We’re trying to prevent a murder.”

  The officer remained obdurate. “Halt, or I’ll give you a load of buckshot!”

  Mason paused. From the interior of the house sounded the roar of a shot.

  A half second later another shot crashed out. A bullet smashed through a big plate glass window in the front of the house, leaving a hole from which radiated jagged cracks.

  Mason beckoned to the men in the police car. “Hurry up,” he shouted, “bring that gun!”

  A third shot crashed out from the inside of the house.

  Della Street screamed at—Paul Drake, “Do something!” Then releasing her hold on the child, she was running toward the police car. “It’s Perry Mason, the lawyer. He’s trying to prevent a murder!”

  “It’s Mason, all right,” a voice from the interior of the car carried to Della Street’s ears.

  Paul Drake slid out from the car. “Better keep an eye on the kid, Della,” he said, and started running toward the back of the house.

  Officers ran past Della. One of them rushed up the front steps, at the door, another one circled around the house.

  Two more shots came from the interior of the house in rapid succession. Mason flung his weight against the door, and was thrown back. The officer at the door raised the butt of his sawed-off shotgun, brought it down hard against the sash of a window which opened onto the front porch. The glass crashed in. and the officer kicked out the jagged pieces that remained in the bottom of the pane, then jumped through the window into the lighted interior of the house.

  Mason came through behind the officer so fast that their shadows mingled.

  From the rear of the house came a sharp command, the cracking sound of a pistol shot, then the heavy boom of a sawed- off shotgun and silence.

  There were lights in the living room which Jason Bartsler Used as his office. The doors were opened.

  Mason said, “This way.”

  “Wait a minute!” the officer said. “Take it easy. We open the front door first.”

  “No, no. This way. There’s a body in there.”

  The officer looked, following the direction indicated by Mason’s finger.

  The shoulder and arm of a man who lay sprawled on the floor were visible through the door. The hand held an automatic.

  The officer hesitated, moved forward, holding the sawed-off shotgun in readiness.

  A voice sounded from the back window. “Hey, Bill, a man tried to beat it out this way. This guy, Paul Drake, grabbed him, but couldn’t hold him. The man broke loose just as I came up. I yelled at him to stop and he took a shot at me. I poured buckshot into him. He managed to get through the back yard into the alley. I hit him all right. He’s left a trail of blood.”

  “Go get him!” the officer barked. “What’s holding you back?”

  “Thought I’d let you know.”

  “All right, I know! Stay with him! There’s a body in here.”

  They entered the room.

  The figure of Jason Bartsler was sprawled at full length on the rug of the living room. From a leg which was crumpled in under him emerged a slow welling stream of red.

  Mason dropped to his knees, felt for Bartsler’s wrist.

  “Pulse all right,” Mason said. “Look him over for wounds. Turn him over.”

  “Get that gun out of his hand,” the officer demanded.

  Mason turned Bartsler over. The gun slipped from nerveless fingers. The lawyer’s hands ripped aside the robe which covered the pajamas, pulled back the coat part of the pajamas. The officer, still holding the sawed-off shotgun in one hand pulled down the lower part of the pajamas with the other.

  A bullet had entered just above Jason Bartsler’s right knee and had gone out through the calf of the leg. It seemed to be the only wound on the man’s body.

  Mason bent and sniffed the muzzle of the automatic. It had been freshly fired.

  “Fainted from the shock,” Mason said. “Looks as though the bullet hit the joint. Let’s get him up on that couch and get some brandy down him.”

  “Say,” the officer commanded without moving to comply with Mason’s request, “suppose you do a little talking. What’s coming off here?” He went to the front door, unlocked it, returned.

  Mason said, “Someone tried to kill Jason Bartsler.”

  “Looks to me like Jason Bartsler tried to kill someone else.”

  “We’ll let him tell you about it,” Mason said, “when he regains consciousness. Come on, let’s get him up on that davenport.”

  The officer helped Mason lift the wounded man up on the davenport. Mason found some brandy, moistened Bartsler’s lips with it, held it under his nostrils, said to the officer, “Better get an ambulance, hadn’t you?”

  Another siren sounded outside the door, quavered into silence as the car moved in to park at the curb.

  “Sounds like an ambulance now,” the officer said.

  “I don’t know how it got here unless it was mind reading,” Mason pointed out.

  Bartsler’s eyelids fluttered. Mason slipped a hand under Bartsler’s head. “Take a drink of this.”

  Mason tilted the brandy down the man’s throat. Bartsler swallowed, coughed, then reached for the glass. “Did I get him?” he asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Mason said.

  Heavy steps sounded on the porch. Men rushed pell-mell into the room, caught sight of the occupants and stopped. Lieutenant Tragg looked at the radio officer, at the figure on the davenport, at Mason. “What’s happened?” he demanded.