“Then I closed the door, went across the hall to Room 728, and very calmly telephoned the desk and told them to send up a bellboy, I wanted to check out.”

  “And the bellboy came up?” Mason asked.

  “The bellboy came up, and I walked down and checked out. Since Rose had rented the room in the morning, and I was checking out early in the evening, I had to make some explanation. So I told the clerk that my father was critically ill in San Diego and I had to go to him. I said a friend was driving me down. That’s all there was to it.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Mason said. “What about that second gun?

  She said, “You came here and asked me questions that night, and you remember you said you wanted to use my phone. That phone goes through a switchboard downstairs, and we are charged with calls.

  “I was wondering what to do about that gun. After you left, I went downstairs and got the switchboard operator to give me the number you’d called. I called that number and, when the person answered, he said it was the Glade- dell Motel. I did some quick thinking and asked him if a Mr. Jerry Conway was registered there, and he said yes, in Unit 21, and did I want him called. I said no, not to call him, that I was just checking, and hung up quick before they could ask any questions.

  “So then I waited until after midnight. I drove down to the motel. Jerry Conway’s car was parked in front of Unit 21, and I slipped the phony list of stockholders’ proxies under the seat of his car, then walked over to the back of the lot. I’d taken a little trowel with me, and I buried that second gun. By that time I didn’t know which gun had been used in committing the murder. But I felt that if things got to a point where I needed to, I could give the police an anonymous tip, saying I was a woman who lived near the motel and that I’d seen someone burying some metallic object that looked like a gun out there in the lot.”

  “So,” Mason said, “you were willing to have Conway convicted of murder in order to—”

  She met his eyes and said, “Mr. Mason, my husband framed me for murder, and believe me, because of the way things went I was framed for murder. Don’t ever kid yourself, I could have gone to prison for life, or gone to the gas chamber. I had every motive in the world. The murder had been committed with my gun. I had been seen leaving the room where the murdered girl lay. I was up against it. I felt that I could frame enough of a case on Jerry Conway so the police would quit looking for—any other murderer, and I felt absolutely certain that a clever lawyer could keep Jerry Conway from being convicted. I suppose I’ve been guilty of a crime, and now you’ve trapped me. I don’t know how you found out about all this, but I’m coming clean and I’m throwing myself on your mercy.”

  Mason looked at his watch and said, “All right, I can’t wait any longer. Paul Drake is serving you with a subpoena to appear as a witness for the defense. Serve the subpoena on her, Paul.”

  Paul Drake handed her a subpoena.

  Della Street, who had been taking surreptitious notes, looked up and caught Mason’s eye. He raised his eyebrows in silent question, and she nodded, indicating that she had the statement all down.

  “All right,” Mason said to Drake, “come on, we’ve got to get back to court.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing,” Myrtle Lamar said.

  “What?” Mason asked.

  “My face,” she said. “It’s got to be fed.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Driving back to the courthouse, Mason said to Paul Drake, “Paul, this is a damned good lesson in the importance of circumstantial evidence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Circumstantial evidence is the best evidence we have,” Mason said, “but you have to be careful not to misinterpret it.

  “Now, look at the circumstantial evidence of the food in the stomach. Doctors are prepared to state that death took place within approximately two hours of the time the food was ingested. Because they know that the woman in Room 729 had food delivered to her around four-thirty, and presumably started eating when the food was delivered, they placed the time of death at almost exactly six-thirty-five to six-forty-five, the exact time that Jerry Conway was there.

  “The only difference is the waiter didn’t think there were peas on the dinner menu but peas were found in the stomach of the murder victim. Everyone took it for granted that it was simply a slip-up, a mistake on the part of the waiter in preparing the tray and in remembering what he’d put on there. Actually, it’s the most important clue in the whole case. It shows that the woman whose body was found in 729 couldn’t have been the woman who ordered the dinner which was delivered at four- thirty.”

  “Well,” Drake said, “we knew what happened, but how the devil are you going to prove it? A jury isn’t going to believe Mrs. Farrell’s story … . Or will it?”

  “That depends,” Mason said, “on how much other evidence we can get. And it depends on who killed Rose Calvert.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The point that Mrs. Farrell completely missed was that Giff was trying to make it appear that Rose’s death was a suicide. He entered the room, he found the body, there wasn’t any sign of a gun. That was because the murderer had kicked the murder weapon under the bed—unless he threw it there deliberately. Probably he dropped it and then had kicked it under the bed without knowing what he had done. Or perhaps he just kicked it under the bed hoping it wouldn’t be found right away, or not giving a damn and just wanting to get rid of it.”

  “You mean, you don’t think Gifford Farrell is the murderer?”

  “The evidence points to the contrary,” Mason said. “Why would Gifford Farrell have killed Rose and then discharged another gun into the underside of the mattress so there would be an empty shell in that gun and then have left the gun on the floor by the corpse?”

  “So as to implicate his wife,” Drake said.

  “But don’t you see,” Mason pointed out, “if he’d done that, he’d have taken the other gun? He wouldn’t have left it there.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t know it was there.”

  “I’m satisfied he didn’t know it was there,” Mason “said. “But if he had killed her, he would have known it was there, because that was the gun with which she was killed.”

  “Oh-oh,” Drake said. “Now I see your point.”

  “Therefore,” Mason said, “Gifford Farrell was a victim of circumstances. He tried to make the crime appear a suicide. He was carrying that gun with him, probably for his own protection. He discharged it into the mattress and dropped it by the side of the bed.

  “If Mrs. Farrell hadn’t got in such a panic, she would have realized that Gifford was trying to set the stage for suicide. He could very easily have told the authorities that this gun was one he had taken home from the Texas Global, that he had given it to Rose for her own protection, that she had become despondent and had committed suicide. But when Mrs. Farrell saw that gun, and saw her husband leaving the room after having heard the shot—which must have been the shot he fired into the underside of the mattress—she became panic-stricken and immediately felt that he was trying to frame the murder on her. So she led with her chin.”

  “And then she tried to frame it on Conway?”

  “That’s right,” Mason said.

  “Well, you can mix the case up all to hell,” Drake said, “but the trouble is, Mason, you’ve got too much of a reputation for mixing things up. The jury is pretty apt to think all this is a big razzle-dazzle, cooked up by a lawyer to mix things up so his client won’t be convicted. If you can’t shake this damned hotel clerk in his testimony that Rose Calvert was the one who checked into Room 729 claiming she was the secretary for Gerald Boswell, you’re hooked.”

  Mason said, “What I’ve got to do is to find out what actually happened.”

  “When do we eat?” Myrtle Lamar asked.

  Mason said, “Myrtle, you’re going to have to feed your own face.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll give you money for the best lunch in town,” Mason said, “but we’re going to be busy.”

  She pouted. “That wasn’t the way it was promised. Paul was going to take me to lunch. I want to have lunch with him.”

  “I have to be in court,” Drake said.

  “No, you don’t. You’re not trying the case—and I’ll tell you one other thing, you hadn’t better leave me alone, running around here. I know too much now. You’ve got to keep me under surveillance, as you detectives call it.”

  Mason laughed, said, “You win, Myrtle. Paul, you’re going to have to take her to lunch.”

  “But I want to see what happens in court.”

  “Nothing too much is going to be happening in court,” Mason said. “Not right away. The district attorney is stalling, trying to find some way of accounting for that bullet in the underside of the mattress. He wants to prove that I shot it there and he’s just about ready to call Inskip so they can lay a foundation to involve me in the case as an accessory.

  “So you can count on the fact that he’ll stall things along just as much as he can, and this time I’m inclined to play along with him because I want to find out what happened.

  “Someone murdered Rose Calvert. I want to find out who.”

  “Well,” Drake said, “don’t ever overlook the fact that it could well have been Mrs. Gifford Farrell. She had the room across the corridor from the girl. She hated the girl’s guts. She was seen by a chambermaid coming out of the girl’s room … . Good Lord! Perry, don’t let her pull the wool over your eyes by telling a convincing story which, after all, has for its sole purpose getting herself off the hook.”

  “I’m thinking of that,” Mason said.

  “And,” Drake went on, “she’s the one who buried the murder weapon down there at the motel … . Hang it, Perry! The more you think of it, the more logical the whole thing becomes. She must have been the one who committed the murder.”

  “There’s just one thing against it,” Mason said.

  “What?” Drake asked.

  “Circumstantial evidence,” Mason told him.

  “Such as what?”

  “Why didn’t she give Jerry Conway the murder weapon instead of the weapon that Gifford had planted there to make the death appear suicide?”

  Drake tugged at the lobe of his ear for a moment, then said, “Hell’s bells, Perry! This is one case I can’t figure. Things are coming a little too fast for me. Where do I take Myrtle to lunch?”

  “Someplace not too far from the courthouse,” Mason said.

  “Well, let me out here. This is a darned good restaurant. We’ll take a cab and come to court when we’re finished … . How much of a lunch do you want, Myrtle?”

  “Not too much,” she said. “I’ll have two dry Martinis to start, then a shrimp cocktail, and after that a filet mignon with potatoes au gratin, a little garlic toast, a few vegetables on the side such as asparagus or sweet corn, then some mince pie a la mode, and a big cup of black coffee. That will last me until evening.

  “Believe me, it’s not very often that one of us girls gets an opportunity to look at the left-hand side of the menu without paying a bit of attention to what’s printed on the right-hand side.”

  Mason glanced at Paul Drake and nodded. “It may be just as well to keep her out of circulation until the situation clarifies itself.”

  Mason stopped the car and let Paul and Myrtle Lamar out.

  “That’s a scheming little package,” Della Street said when Mason started the car again. “I hope Paul Drake doesn’t get tangled up with her.”

  “I hope Paul Drake really turns her inside out,” Mason said.

  “What do you mean? She’s turned inside out,” Della said.

  Mason shook his head. “For all we know, Della, she could have been the one who committed the murder. Anyone around the hotel could.”

  “Including Bob King?” Della Street asked.

  “Including Bob King.”

  “Well, I’d certainly like to see you wrap it around his neck,” she said. “But somehow, Chief, I’m inclined to agree with Paul. I think that Mrs. Farrell is mixed in this thing so deep—”

  “That’s just the point,” Mason said. “But then we get back to that business of circumstantial evidence. If she had killed her, she wouldn’t have given Jerry Conway the wrong gun.”

  “What about the gun that did the fatal shooting?” Della asked. “What have they found out about it?”

  “So far they haven’t told us,” Mason said. “But the grapevine has it that they can’t tell a thing about the gun, because it was stolen from a hardware store a year and a half ago along with half a dozen other guns.

  “Within thirty minutes of the time of the crime, police spotted a car loaded with a bunch of tough-looking kids speeding along. It was about three o’clock in the morning so they took after it. There was quite a chase before they caught the kids. The kids admitted that when they saw the police were taking after them, they threw everything they had taken out of the car windows as they were speeding along. There were half a dozen revolvers, three or four 22 rifles, a lot of ammunition, and some jackknives. Police recovered most of the stuff, but they didn’t find a couple of guns, and quite a few of the knives. Almost anyone could have picked up this murder weapon the next day.”

  “They have the general locality?” Della Street asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Was it near anyplace where Mrs. Farrell would have been?”

  “It was at the other end of town,” Mason said.

  “Well,” she told him, “you like circumstantial evidence so much. This is an opportunity to put a jigsaw puzzle together.”

  “You can put it together two or three different ways,” Mason said, “but the pieces don’t all fit.

  “The trouble with circumstantial evidence isn’t with the evidence, but with the reasoning that starts interpreting that evidence … . I’m kicking myself over those peas in the dead girl’s stomach. There was the most significant clue in the whole case, and damned if I didn’t discount it and think it was simply a waiter’s mistake.

  “I should have cross-examined that waiter up one side and down the other and made him show that he was absolutely positive those peas couldn’t have been on the tray taken to 729. I should have made that the big point in the case.

  “However, I knew that the peas were in the dead girl’s stomach and therefore, like everybody else, thought it must have been a mistake on the part of the waiter, and didn’t pay too much attention to it.”

  “Well,” Della Street told him, “you’ve got an assorted set of monkey wrenches now that you can drop into the district attorney’s machinery whenever you want to.”

  “But this time,” Mason told her, “I have to be right.”

  They rode up in the elevator to the courtroom and entered just in time to take their seats at the counsel table before court was reconvened.

  Judge DeWitt said, “The police officer was on the witness stand.”

  Elliott, on his feet, said, “If the Court please, I have a few more questions on direct examination to ask of this witness.”

  “Very well,” Judge DeWitt said.

  Elliott’s questions indicated that he was still sparring for time.

  Within ten minutes after court had reconvened, however, the door opened and both Hamilton Burger and Alexander Redfield, the ballistics expert, came tiptoeing into the courtroom.

  Redfield took his seat in court, and Hamilton Burger, ponderously tiptoeing forward, reached the counsel table, leaned over and whispered to Elliott.

  An expression of beaming good nature was on the district attorney’s face.

  Elliott listened to Burger’s whisper, nodded his head, then said, “That’s all. I have no further questions.”

  “No cross-examination.”

  Hamilton Burger arose ponderously. “Call Frederick Inskip to the stand.”

  Inskip came forward and was sworn, and Hamilton Burger, walking around the end of the counsel table to examine him where he would appear to best advantage in front of the jurors, gave every indication of being completely satisfied with the turn of events.

  “Mr. Inskip,” he said, “what is your occupation? And what was your occupation on the sixteenth and seventeenth of October?”

  “A private detective.”

  “Were you employed on the sixteenth and seventeenth of October by Paul Drake?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And on what case were you working?”

  “The murder at the Redfern Hotel.”

  “And did you know who had employed Mr. Drake?”

  “Perry Mason.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I was instructed that Mr. Mason, who was the man in charge of the case, would join me.”

  “Join you? Where?”

  “At the Redfern Hotel.”

  “You mean you had checked into the Redfern Hotel?”

  “I had, yes, sir.”

  “At what time?”

  “Well, it was sometime after the murder. I was instructed to go to the hotel and register in Room 728.”

  “Why 728? Do you know?”

  “I wasn’t told.”

  “But 728 is right across the hall from 729?”

  “Yes, sir. The door of 728 is exactly across the hall from the bedroom door of 729. 729 is a suite, and has two doors.”

  “I see,” Hamilton Burger said. “Now, how did you arrange to get in Room 728?”

  Judge DeWitt said, “Just a moment. Is this pertinent? This took place after the murder was committed. It was a conversation, as I take it, between Paul Drake and a man who was in his employ. It was without the presence of the defendant.”

  “But,” Hamilton Burger said, “we propose to show you, Your Honor, in fact, I think we have shown that the conversation was the result of the instructions of Mr. Perry Mason, who was then acting as attorney for the defendant in this case.”

  Judge DeWitt looked down at Mason and said, “I haven’t as yet heard an objection from the defense.”

  “We have no objection to make, Your Honor,” Mason said. “We’re quite willing to have any fact in this case that will shed any light on what happened presented to this jury.”