“Just a hobby,” Mason said. “I use it as a means of relaxation, to get away from the arduous cares of my work.”

  “I should charge you a royalty,” Drake said. “Going to have doughnuts to go with the coffee, Della?”

  “Not unless you go down and buy some.”

  “I’ll go,” Drake said. “There’s a place around the corner that specializes in fresh doughnuts. I’ll get some with chocolate icing, powdered sugar and—”

  “No chocolate icing for me,” Della said.

  “Nor me,” Mason chimed in.

  “Nor me,” Drake agreed reluctantly. “I just like to talk big . . . .What’s your horse, Perry?”

  “One in the third race,” Mason said, “a horse by the name of Dough Boy.”

  “Dough Boy!” Drake exclaimed.

  Mason, watching his face closely, nodded.

  Drake threw back his head and laughed.

  “What’s the trouble?” Mason asked.

  “Dough Boy!” Drake exclaimed. “Good Lord, why don’t you donate your money to the track and be done with it? Why, Dough Boy doesn’t stand a whisper of a chance. He won’t be a quarter of the way around the track by the time the leader is finishing. Gee Whiz is the nag to bet on. Good Lord, Perry, don’t tell me that you’re playing some of these long-shot tips. They’re a dime a dozen.”

  “I don’t know much about it,” Mason said modestly.

  “I’ll say you don’t,” Drake told him. “You’ve fallen for the oldest gag in racing. Now, listen to me and get some of the facts of life straight from the horse’s mouth.

  “There are all kinds of tips floating around. You can get good tips and bad tips. If you have a regular tipster and he knows you’re acting on his tips, he tries to give you a winner. But if you aren’t a regular customer and a tout feels that he can only get you once, he picks a long shot. Every time there’s a long shot running some tout will pick a credulous bird who doesn’t know anything about the track or about handicapping and give him a tip on that long shot. If it doesn’t pay off, which it doesn’t nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, you never hear from the tout again. If it does pay off, he has you hooked but good and he’s got a nice tip coming.

  “The only way to pick a horse is on the basis of past performance, on the weight the nag is carrying, the condition of the track, and above all, the jockey who’s riding him . . . . Tell me, Perry, who was this tipster? Someone you know?”

  “No.”

  “A rather seedy-looking chap who—”

  “A neatly dressed woman.”

  “A woman!”

  “Right.”

  “A looker?”

  “And how.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-five or six.”

  Drake roared with laughter. “Don’t ever tell anyone else, Perry! This is good. The shrewdest lawyer at the bar falling for a trick so old it has whiskers. You can bet that woman called on two dozen other suckers with the same tip. Being a good-looking babe she could get in to see people—Oh, Perry!”

  Mason looked at his watch. “Thanks for your help, Paul. Now, if we’re going to get those doughnuts before the broadcast starts . . . “

  Drake grinned. “Meaning I had better get started. Okay, on my way.”

  Mason looked over at Della Street and smiled. “I think we can safely assume,” he said, “that Paul Drake has not placed any money on Dough Boy.”

  Chapter Two

  The voice of the announcer, droning the information, emerged from the loud-speaker. “In the third, they’re away. It’s a good start. They’re running bunched together. Gee Whiz, the favorite, is going to the front on the outside. Hard Times is second. Deep End is third. Carte Blanche is fourth. Dough Boy is fifth. At the far turn it’s Gee Whiz by a length. Deep End is second. Hard Times is third. Turning into the stretch it’s Gee Whiz by a length. Deep End and Hard Times are running neck and neck in second place. Pot O’Gold leads Carte Blanche by a neck.”

  Drake grinned, pulled a chocolate-coated doughnut out of the bag and bit into it. “Looks like I’ve hit the jackpot,” he said and then, after a moment, laughed. “Dough Boy!” he exclaimed. “This is really good.”

  The announcer went on. “Deep End is falling back. Dough Boy is coming fast from the rear. He’s passed Carte Blanche, is passing Deep End, is gaining on Hard Times.”

  Drake slowly put down the chocolate-coated doughnut, lowered the coffee cup, glanced at Perry Mason.

  “It’s Gee Whiz and Hard Times running neck and neck, then Dough Boy. Deep End is a neck behind. Pot O’Gold is back a length. Then Carte Blanche. Hard Times passes Gee Whiz. It’s Hard Times by a neck, Gee Whiz second, Dough Boy third. Dough Boy is creeping up. Dough Boy passes Gee Whiz. Dough Boy and Hard Times are running neck and neck. Dough Boy is ahead by a nose. At the finish, it’s Dough Boy. Dough Boy, by a neck. Dough Boy, first; Hard Times, second. Gee Whiz is third.”

  Della Street turned down the radio. “Finish your doughnut, Paul.”

  Paul Drake said in a somewhat awed voice, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  He bit into the doughnut, added, “Leave that thing on, Della. Let’s find out what the odds were. Good Lord, that nag must have been carrying the United States mint with him. Dough Boy—well, of all things! Why, that horse had no more business . . . winning—Can you beat that?”

  Della Street turned up the radio and held her pencil poised over the paper waiting for the odds. When they came, she marked them down on a piece of paper, handed them to Mason.

  Paul Drake shook his head and gave a low whistle. “Fifty-seven bucks for two!” he said. “That’s twenty-seven and a half to one odds. Did you bet two bucks?”

  Mason’s smile was enigmatic. “I had more or less of an academic interest in the race, Paul.”

  “Fifty-seven dollars,” Drake repeated slowly. “Lord, do you peasants know what that means? It means that if someone had had guts enough to make a hundred-dollar bet on Dough Boy, they’d be two thousand, seven hundred and fifty bucks to the good right now.”

  Drake shook his head, sighed wistfully and said, “Two thousand, seven hundred and fifty bucks. Even a fifty-dollar bet would have—”

  “Well, how about a two-dollar bet?” Mason asked.

  Drake grinned. “A two-dollar bet would have netted you fifty-five bucks. That would have paid all your expenses at the track, paid for a nice dinner by candlelight with champagne and a good-looking babe, a dance and . . . “ Drake suddenly shook his head and said, “But I didn’t have two bucks on him. I lost my two bucks on Gee Whiz. I’m eating a chocolate-coated doughnut. I suppose you and Della will go out and celebrate now.”

  “Not a bad idea, Della,” Mason said. “Why don’t we dine by candlelight, with a nice filet mignon and a baked potato?”

  “Because,” she said, “my figure has severed diplomatic relations with the potato. Make it garden peas and it’s a deal.”

  Drake sighed wistfully. “It’s nice to listen to how the other half lives,”

  he said, pushing back his cup and saucer. “Well, I have a whole stack of work to do in the office before I can call it a day. How did you get that tip, Perry?”

  Della said, “It’s a new system he has. He never seems to miss. He can pick them every time.”

  Drake’s eyes widened.

  Della continued, “He doesn’t pay any attention to the odds or the weight, the condition of the track, or who the jockey is. He simply looks down the list of the horses and picks out the one whose name he likes—a horse that will make an honest effort to win. Now, Dough Boy has a nice name. There’s something solid about it, something that—”

  “Oh, my God!” Drake exclaimed in disgust. “You amateurs! You’ll go broke playing a system like that. You don’t stand a whisper of a chance.”

  “I know,” Mason said. “How did you pick Gee Whiz, Paul?”

  “Scientifically—on the basis of past performances, the showing he—

  Oh, go to hell. Rub it in! But your fifty-five bucks will go down the drain fast with the system you’re using.”

  Mason carelessly produced the five one-hundred-dollar tickets. “I hate piker bets,” he said. “These represent five hundred bucks right on the nag’s nostrils.”

  Drake looked at the tickets in stupefied amazement, then said almost reverently, “Over fourteen thousand smackers!”

  He raised his eyes to the lawyer’s face.

  “Perry, you didn’t—Well, now I’ve seen everything!”

  The detective jerked the door open. “An honest effort,” he said, “a nice-sounding name—Hell!”

  He shot out of the door.

  Mason grinned at Della Street.

  “Well,” she said, “where do we go from here?”

  “To dinner,” Mason said, “and to the track tomorrow afternoon.

  There’s a window where they pay off on the previous day’s winners. I’ll show up with five one-hundred-dollar tickets. According to Drake’s figures, that entitles me to—How much, Della?”

  Della Street made rapid marks with the pencil. “A slight matter of fourteen thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars,” she said. “That includes the original five hundred that was bet.”

  “That,” Mason told her, “would be quite a windfall for a young secretary who is out of work and is trying to get someone to share the expenses of her apartment . . . . I have also heard that the Bureau of Internal Revenue keeps a representative on hand to check the names and addresses of the people who make big winnings.”

  “How nice,” Della said. “A one-man reception committee. I take it you’ll want a witness.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Mason said.

  “And we have to go to the track to collect in person.”

  “That’s right,” Mason told her. “The urgent correspondence is all caught up. We’d better take a brief case to put the money in.”

  “Would you,” Della Street asked, “mind picking a horse for me to bet on tomorrow? Just one with a good, substantial name; one that seems to be the sort of horse that would make an honest effort.”

  “Not at all,” Mason told her. “It will be a pleasure.”

  Chapter Three

  Mason inched his way through the congested traffic approaching the parking spaces at the race track, finally found a parking space, helped Della Street out of the car, and together they approached the grandstand.

  “Did you pick me a horse?” Della asked. “A horse with a nice substantial name? A horse that will do his best?”

  “I’ve picked him,” Mason said.

  “Which one is it?” she asked.

  “His name,” Mason said, “is Pound Sterling. Doesn’t that sound like money in the bank?”

  “Oh, wonderful,” she exclaimed. “What do I do about it?”

  Mason gravely handed her two dollars. “You go to the betting window as soon as it opens,” he said, “hand the man two dollars and tell him you want to bet on number six. That is the number of Pound Sterling.”

  “Two dollars?” Della Street said, “with a name like that, and a horse that’s selected by the great Perry Mason? Two dollars would be an insult! I’m going to bet ten dollars.”

  “Now look/’ Mason told her, “a gag’s a gag, but ten dollars is ten dollars.”

  “Pound Sterling isn’t a gag,” she told him. “It’s money in the bank. The name rings a bell.”

  “A two-dollar bell,” Mason said.

  “Ten dollars.”

  “Two.”

  “Look here, suppose he wins and you’ve talked me out of making a ten-dollar bet, then how would you feel?”

  Mason sighed. “Arguing with a woman is a waste of time. Make it ten.”

  “Ten it is,” she said.

  They found seats in the grandstand. The windows opened on the first race; Della Street returned from the ten-dollar window with a ticket on Pound Sterling. “Right on his nose,” she said.

  “Well,” Mason told her, “we may as well get our business obligations over with. I’ll go to the window which pays off on bets made yesterday and present the tickets. You stand by as a witness to any conversation that may take place.”

  “Do they indulge in conversation?” Della Street asked.

  “The man at the window doesn’t,” Mason said, “but someone else may.”

  “What someone?”

  “The someone our client wished to avoid,” Mason told her. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Della Street said, “Would it be a good idea for me to take one of the tickets and approach the window first and you could stand in the background and size the situation up?”

  Mason shook his head. “We’re going to have to cash the tickets. Those are instructions from our client. We may as well do it all at once, and I may as well be the one who does it. Then if there’s any trouble I’ll try to make it look as natural as possible and not give anyone a chance to say I had some guilty knowledge, and for that reason was trying to work through you and to cash one ticket at a time.”

  “If anything happens, do I pretend that I don’t know you and stand to one side?”

  “No,” Mason said, “we don’t pretend anything. You’re my secretary, you’re here with me normally and naturally. We’re enjoying the races this afternoon and cashing in on bets we made yesterday.”

  “Bets we made?” she asked.

  “That would be the natural assumption.”

  “Do we implement it with conversation?”

  “We implement it with nothing,” Mason said. “We pick up the booty and walk away. There may be a representative of the Bureau of Internal Revenue inquiring about my name and address.”

  “You’ll give him that information?”

  “My name and address—certainly.”

  They walked in silence to the window which was paying off past bets.

  Mason produced the five tickets, pushed them through the window.

  The man looked at the tickets, looked at Mason, said, “Third race yesterday, number four, right on the nose.”

  Mason nodded.

  “How do you want this?” the man asked. “Any objection to large bills?”

  “No objection,” Mason said, “but nothing bigger than hundreds.”

  The man started counting out currency, shoved the pile of bills across to Mason. “There you are,” he said.

  Mason picked up the money, opened his brief case.

  A rather short man in his early fifties, with a sallow complexion, sharp gimlet eyes and a nervous manner, rushed forward.

  “There he is!” he shouted. “That’s him. Arrest him!”

  An easy-moving, broad-shouldered individual came lumbering in the wake of the excited little man, produced a leather folder, opened it and showed a badge.

  “Police,” he said.

  “Mind if I look?” Mason asked. He took the leather container and the badge from the man’s hand, held it so Della Street could see the number on the badge, said, “All right, you’re police.”

  “Where’d you get those tickets?” the officer asked.

  “He knows where he got them. He got them from Rodney Banks, and it’s my money,” the smaller man shouted.

  “Shut up,” the officer said.

  Mason turned to the officer. “Perhaps you’d like one of my cards.”

  He handed the officer a card.

  The officer looked at it. “Perry Mason, huh? Thought your face was familiar. I should have placed you. I’ve seen pictures of you in the newspapers.”

  “The money,” the excitable little man said. “The money—get the money, Officer. Don’t let him talk you out of the money.”

  “Shut up,” the officer said.

  Mason turned to the excited individual. “My name’s Mason,” he said, smiling down. “Who are you?”

  “You know good and well who I am,” the man said. “I’m Marvin Fremont.”

  “And just what makes you think you’re entitled to this money, Mr. Fremont?” Mason asked.

  “You know good and well why I’m entitled to it. That money came from a bet made by Rodney Banks, and the five hundred dollars he bet was embezzled from me. Now then, Officer, I want my money.”

  The officer hesitated.

  “Go ahead, take it. Take him into custody. He’s an accomplice,” Fremont shouted.

  Mason grinned at the hesitant officer. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Sid Burdett.”

  Mason extended his hand.

  The two shook hands.

  “Now, I’m investigating an alleged theft or embezzlement,” the officer said. “I guess there’s no question but what this man, Banks, bet the money, and it looks very much as though Banks had been dipping into the till. He works for Marvin Fremont, here. That is, he did work for him.”

  “Go ahead, get busy! Take the money away from him,” Fremont said to the officer. “That’s what you’re here for. He’s an accomplice. Arrest him and throw him in with the other one. Some crooked lawyer in cahoots with an embezzler. The same old—Hey, Officer, she’s taking notes.”

  “I noticed,” Burdett said.

  “My secretary,” Mason explained.

  “What’s she taking notes for?”

  “I have just been called a crooked lawyer in the presence of witnesses,” Mason said. “I feel that gives me a cause of action against this gentleman, here.”

  “What are you talking about, a cause of action?” Fremont said. “If anybody has a cause of action, I’ve got it. My money was used in making this bet.”

  Burdett said to Mason, “I take it Rodney Banks is your client?”

  “Don’t take things for granted,” Mason told him.

  “You mean he isn’t?”

  “I didn’t say that either,” Mason said.

  “Well,” Burdett said, “I’m investigating, that’s all. This Rodney Banks is in jail charged with embezzlement. He evidently had been betting on the horses and got in pretty deep. Then he got a hot tip on Dough Boy in yesterday’s race, and I guess he really went to town and cleaned out the till to make the bet. However, Fremont was wise to what was going on by that time, so he got here at the race track to make the arrest.”