A man's voice said, "She is alive. Her eye moved."

  She felt the thing which was beneath and on her left sway, as though waves were rocking it. A man said, "We can lift her through."

  Again she opened her eyes. This time her senses had cleared so she could see, and could understand what she saw.

  She was behind the steering wheel of the big car. Her gloved left hand and her bare right hand were holding firmly to the perimeter of the wheel. The car was over on its side, balanced precariously on a steep bank. Water was running out of the radiator, off from the crankcase. The lights were off, and the motor was dead.

  Someone turned the flashlight toward her again. She saw the windshield interspersed with myriad cracks, saw broken glass guttering on the seat.

  There were people above her. Arms reached down through the wide window in the car. Fingers circled her wrists, were pulling her up. A man's voice said, "Give me a hand here. This thing may catch fire. Hurry up. Can you use your legs, sister?"

  She tried to struggle. Her legs seemed twisted and useless. She felt herself falling. Only the inexorable pressure on her wrists held her up. Then there were other hands under her armpits, on her body, and she was being lifted smoothly up.

  Darkness again, the feeling the she was being carried... Voices, voices engaged in meaningless conversation. She could hear the sounds, and knew they were words, but they conveyed no meaning to her mind... Blood-red lights on the road... Screaming of tires... "Hurry, there has been an accident."... "Over there... I think he is dead." ... "Right here." ... "Beg pardon, Madam, there has been an accident."... Screaming tires... Sirens.

  The darkness of oblivion.

  Pain stung her into consciousness, short, sharp road jolts which came from tires hitting expansion joints on the concrete pavement at great speed. The steady sound of a siren, the clanging of a bell...

  She was in traffic now. She could hear the sound of traffic signals, of horns, the rumble of streetcars. But the ambulance went right ahead, its siren clearing a right of way. Stephane could feel the short, sharp jolt of streetcar tracks, feel the sway of the big car as the driver spun the wheel first to one side then to another, avoiding obstruction as the ambulance raced through the frozen traffic.

  She felt the touch of hands. A man's voice said, "Take it easy." She heard the sound of rollers, then she was being lifted on a stretcher. She caught the smell of ether,

  opened her eyes and saw the walls of a white corridor flowing past. She was on wheels ... bright lights in her eyes, skilled fingers exploring her body... She felt a twinge of pain, heard a man's voice whisper, heard the rustle of stiffly starched garments, then the jab of a hypodermic needle ...

  She was having difficulty with her breathing. She tried to fight something off her face, trying to get fresh air.

  A nurse said, "Don't fight. Breathe deeply ..."

  A long deep breath . . .

  Chapter 4

  HORTY LOOKED down at Stephane's blonde hair spilled out on the Pillow. "You are a mess," she said.

  Stephane smiled. "I feel it. I ache everywhere."

  "You are lucky nothing is broken. Some bad bruises and a few stitches in your leg. A cut on your shoulder, but it has all patched up nicely."

  "Any scars?"

  "Not where they will show, unless you take up fan dancing,"

  "I might at that," Stephane said, "My mouth feels like a hotel room after a salesmen's convention has moved out. What happened?"

  "You are in a jam" Horty said.

  "I shall say I am. I came down here to get a job, and here I am laid up. How long will it be before I can get out, Horty? Give me the real low-down."

  Horty was in the late twenties, and weighed a hundred and fifty. Her figure didn't bulge. She carried her weight in comfortable curves which attracted the masculine eye. There was bubbling good nature in her eyes, a smile always twisting the corners of her lips. She perpetually found something in life to laugh at. The broad-minded tolerance of her outlook enabled her to see humor in any situation. She was never insulted, never shocked, never annoyed. She took life in her stride, ate what she wanted when she wanted, and never worried. "Sure, men like slender, willowy figures," she said. "They also like good nature. Good nature goes with upholstery. And I like food. So there you are." And Horty never suffered for any lack of men friends. Men were always taking her out, starting in as good pals and winding up in the grip of fascination which made other women seem insipid.

  "Come on, Horty," Stephane said. "How long?"

  Horty looked down at her. The smile quit trembling at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes still showed humor. "You must have been pretty high," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Stealing the guy's car."

  "Stealing a car! What are you talking about?'

  "Didn't you grab the buzz buggy?" Horty asked.

  "Good heavens, no. I was riding..."

  "There was liquor on your breath."

  "Yes, he kept after me until I took a drink."

  "But you were driving the car."

  "I was doing no such thing, Hortense Zitkousky."

  Horty's eyes became grave. "You wouldn't kid an old friend, would you?"

  "Of course not."

  Horty looked around the room, lowered her voice. "It is okay, Stephane. The nurse is out."

  "I tell you I wasn't driving that car."

  "When they found you, you were behind the wheel."

  Sudden realization came to Stephane's mind. "I was, at that," she admitted. "I remember that much. What happened to the man?"

  "What man?"

  "The man who was with me – who was driving the car."

  Horty shook her head.

  "Anybody hurt?" Stephane asked.

  "Lots of people. Some of them bad. You sideswiped into a car on the right, went directly toward a car coming in your direction, raked across its front, and sent it over into the other line of traffic. It was a hit head-on. Then you went on down the bank, turned over four or five times, and came to rest right on the edge of a sheer drop. It was a wonder you didn't burn to a crisp."

  "But I wasn't driving that car. Who owns it?"

  "Some big shot in Hollywood. It was stolen yesterday afternoon."

  "Yesterday... What day is this?"

  "Thursday."

  "It was really stolen, Horty?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Stephane tried to sit up, then, as she felt the soreness in her muscles dropped back to the pillows. "What a mess," she moaned.

  Horty said, "Oh, it is not so bad. They can't hook you for stealing the car, if you stick to your story. They can't prove you were intoxicated. Reckless driving is the worst they can pin on you – unless ... look here, Stephane, you didn't really get high and don't-careish and steal that car, did you?"

  "Don't be silly. I was thumbing my way down from San Francisco. I can prove I was in San Francisco yesterday morning. I picked up this ride in Bakersfield."

  "The fellow had been drinking?"

  "Yes."

  "How much?"

  "Not too little, not too much."

  "Pawing?"

  "Uh-huh. He was trying to. That is what made the trouble."

  "Look here, Stephane, you wouldn't kid me. You didn't think he was drunk, and get him to let you drive? It isn't someone you are protecting?"

  "No, honest Injun."

  Horty's eyes lost their twinkle. "Well," she said, "it looks like you are going to need a lawyer."

  Chapter 5

  DELLA STREET, Perry Mason's secretary, listened to Horty's story, said apologetically, "Mr. Mason doesn't have time to handle many small cases and ..."

  "And I am just a working girl," Horty interrupted. "I have got a little money saved up. I am willing to put that into the kitty.

  "What as more, I am making a fair salary. I am a secretary myself. Working for a nearsighted man," she added with bubbling laughter. "I am not supposed to be an office ornament, so I can eat three times a day. Tell Mr. Mason I will raise some money on a salary loan and ..."

  "I don't think that will be necessary," Della Street said with a smile. "Mr. Mason is usually very fair about fees. It is a question of whether he has the time to take on these small cases. Just a moment, please."

  She walked through the law library to Mason's private office.

  Perry Mason, seated in his comfortable, creaking swivel chair, was studying a bill of exceptions. The desk was piled with transcripts and leather-backed law books.

  He looked up. "What is it?"

  She said, "The case isn't anything you would be interested in, but the woman is."

  "What woman?"

  "The one who has brought it in."

  "Tell me," Mason said, pushing the swivel chair out from the desk, spinning around, and propping his feet on an open drawer. "Give me a cigarette out of that humidor, and tell me what it is all about."

  Della Street handed him the cigarette. Mason snapped flame from the end of a match, and lit up.

  "Well, it seems she is Polish. I guess the Poles hang together. She has a friend, a Stephane Claire Olger, whom she says is beautiful, and has decided to go by the name Of Stephane Claire and ..."

  "Which one is out there?" Mason interrupted.

  "Hortense Zitkousky. Apparently everyone calls her Horty. You would get a kick out of her. She has got a full-of-curves figure, lots of good nature, lots of loyalty – about twenty-six, I would judge. She says she is working in a secretarial position for a nearsighted man, so she doesn't have to be an office ornament."

  "What is the case?"

  "Stephane Claire was hitchhiking down from San Francisco. She picked up a ride. A man was driving. He had been drinking. There was a smash, and when she came to, she was behind the steering wheel. There was no sign of the man. The car belongs to a man by the name of Homan, some big-shot producer out in Hollywood. It was stolen yesterday afternoon."

  "What time was the smash-up?"

  "Around quarter past eleven last night."

  "Where is was Miss Claire?"

  "Emergency Hospital, bruised torn ligaments, cuts and a few stitches. The accident was pretty bad. I understand one of the men isn't expected to live. Three cars were involved. There is evidence the girl had been drinking. She admits she took one drink. She claims it was with the man who was driving the car. The police don't think there was any man. They think she stole the car – think it had been stolen twice, in fact."

  "How come?" Mason asked.

  "Apparently, the car was stolen from Hollywood yesterday afternoon. Someone drove it to Bakersfield, and abandoned it. This girl was hitchhiking down from San Francisco. She had been fired up there for knocking down on tips. She saw the car with its doors unlocked and the key in the ignition, saw it was from Hollywood, and decided to drive it back."

  "What does Miss Zitkousky say to that?"

  "She says it is absurd – only she uses more colorful language."

  "No one saw anything of a man in the wreck?"

  "No."

  Mason frowned, said, "Let's talk with this girl and see what she looks like. Send her in."

  Della Street brought Hortense Zitkousky into Mason's private office. Mason listened attentively to her story, said, "I like your loyalty to your friend. Perhaps later on there will be something I can do. I doubt if there is now. What you need is a good detective. The Drake Detective Agency has offices on this same floor. Ask for Paul Drake personally. Tell him I sent you, and tell him not to overcharge you. Let him see if he can find out a little more about that car. If he can find the man who was operating it, your friend will be in the clear. Even if he can find some witness who will swear there were two persons in the front seat, it will be enough. Surely someone involved in that smash must have seen two people in the car."

  Horty said dubiously, "Yes, you would think so."

  "Tell Drake to report to me," Mason said, "and I shall see what I can do."

  "That will be swell, Mr. Mason. About a fee, I ..." She opened her purse.

  Mason waved the money aside with a gesture. "Forget it. I won't put in that much time on it. Drake will need some money for expenses. I wouldn't pay for having an operative on the case more than two or three days. I think that's all you will need. Hope so, anyway."

  Hortense said, "That is awfully white of you, Mr. Mason. Her girlfriend in San Francisco knew she was planning to hitchhike down. Would her statement help?"

  "Not much. As I understand it, the police claim your friend picked up the car in Bakersfield. Tell Drake to concentrate on that end of it. If she can show what time she

  got to Bakersfield, it would have some bearing. Police would hardly claim she stole the car unless they thought she was in Bakersfield for some time. Possibly the man who took her as far as Bakersfield can help."

  "That's right," Horty said. "I will ask her about him. She said he was perfectly swell. We can probably get hold of him. He may know something."

  "That is the idea, Drake will know what to do. What you need right now is to get the facts. If you get them, you won't need a lawyer. If you don't have them, a lawyer won't do you any good. Tell Drake to report to me. Good-bye."

  When she had left. Mason picked up the telephone, got Drake on the line and said, "Sending you a girl and a case, Paul. I think it is something I may be interested in, but don't tell her so. Get the facts and then let me know."

  Chapter 6

  PAUL DRAKE sprawled his tall figure crosswise in the big leather client's chair. "That auto-smash case, Perry," he said, pulling a notebook from his pocket.

  "You mean the girl with the curves?"

  "That's the one."

  "Got anything on it?"

  "Worked a couple of days and don't know what to do next. Had a couple of good operatives on it here, and an associate in San Francisco."

  Mason said. "Okay, Paul, let us hear it."

  "To begin with, Perry, every time I get to fooling around with it, I smell something fishy. That Stephane Claire is a good egg. She had a fight with an uncle, took out for herself, and learned how to light on her feet. Incidentally, Perry, she is a raving beauty, the platinum blonde type."

  "What is wrong with Horty?" Mason asked.

  Drake grinned. "If you would take about thirty pounds off of her, Perry, you'd..."

  "Ruin her disposition," Mason interrupted.

  "There is something to that," Drake admitted. "She certainly is comfortable, that girl. Feels comfortable herself, and makes you feel comfortable. Miss Claire tells me that the boyfriends who talk to Horty talk matrimony."

  "Bet she is a good cook."

  "I shall bet. Well, here is the dope on this thing, Perry. The D.A.'s office is showing lots of activity. That man who was injured died. That means they are going to put a manslaughter charge against the girl."

  "Are they investigating her story?"

  "Not the D.A.'s office. They are sold on the idea she was driving the car. The way they put it together, the girl got a lift as far as Bakersfield all right, just as she says. But they think the man who gave her the ride had a bottle and that Stephane Claire wasn't at all unwilling to help him empty it. By the time she got to Bakersfield, she was pretty high. She blundered into this car, which another thief had abandoned, saw that its home was Hollywood, climbed in, and started going places."

  "Sounds goofy," Mason said.

  "No more goofy than her story. Well, anyway, here is the point, Perry. The car belongs to Jules Carne Homan. He is a big-shot Hollywood producer. Probably about half as big as he thinks he is, which still makes him draw quite a bit of water.

  "He had a fight with his insurance company a couple of years ago, and decided to carry his own car insurance. Now get this, Perry. If that car was being driven with his permission, expressed or implied, he is stuck for damages up to ten thousand dollars. If

  Stephane Claire was driving that car, he is going to claim he isn't responsible for anything because the car wasn't being operated with his implied permission. If the car was being used by an agent of his – someone who was working for him or doing something for him at his request – he is stuck for the whole hog. So you can see what it means to Homan. On one theory, it costs him nothing. On another theory, it costs him ten thousand. If the person who was driving the car was on business for him, it might cost him plenty – and then some."

  Mason narrowed his eyes. "Why do you talk about the car being driven by someone on business for him, Paul?"

  "Because I think there is a darn good chance that is what happened."

  "Let us have it."

  "Well, I went out to see Homan. I didn't get anywhere. He was nasty nice, in an insulting way. Something about Homan didn't register. His story about how the car happened to be taken in the first place didn't click. It was all right from his viewpoint, but when I put myself in the position of a car thief and looked at it from that angle, it sounded phony. If the car wasn't stolen he must have known who the driver was. What is more, the car was stolen around the middle of the day. According to Claire, the driver was wearing a tuxedo. Car thieves don't wear tuxedos when they walk out to swipe parked cars in the middle of the day.

  "So I did a little detective work based on the theory that Homan might be lying. I had a man go down to the telephone office, say he was Homan's butler, that there was something wrong with the long-distance bill, and Homan wasn't going to pay some of the charges. I was looking for telephone calls from or to Bakersfield. Of course, the telephone office told him Homan was stuck if the calls had been placed from that phone. My man got in an argument and finally got to see the telephone bills.

  "There was nothing to or from Bakersfield, but the day before the accident, Homan had been calling San Francisco, and San Francisco had been calling him, collect."

  "You got the numbers?" Mason asked.

  "Sure."

  "What were they?"

  "They all came from a cheap rooming house. The phone is listed in the name of L.C. Spinney – and there is lots of mystery about Spinney."

  Mason's eyes showed interest. "Go ahead, Paul."

  "Spinney has a cheap room in a cheap house in a cheap district. He has a telephone. It is a single line with an unlisted number. Spinney shows up about once a month. He has a portable typewriter. He bats out letters and mails them. He puts in calls to numbers we haven't been able to trace as yet, but other tenants in the building hear him talking. It sounds like a long-distance conversation. They hear him putting through long-distance calls, always station-to-station. They hear him tapping away on his typewriter. Spinney gets mail once or twice a month. He shows up to get that mail