"Then you are in hot water now?"

  "Well, I can feel it getting warm," he admitted. "Come on, let's get back to the table and hold Drake in line. He may get ideas of his own if we leave him alone too long, and I want to put through a couple of telephone calls."

  "To whom?"

  "Oh, to some people I think Tragg should check up on."

  They circled the dance floor until they were near their table, then Mason escorted her back to her chair. "Hold the fort," he said to Drake, "I am going to telephone."

  Drake said, "The waiter was here. He told me you said you wanted the dinner served right along."

  "Yes. We might even skip the soup and get busy on the steaks. It may be quite a while, Paul, before we get nice tender filet mignon again."

  Drake winced. "I wish you wouldn't kid about it. Tragg really means business this time."

  "Uh-huh," Mason agreed.

  He skirted the dance floor, picked his way between the tables to the telephone booth, and dialed Homan's unlisted telephone number. A few moments later, he heard the voice of the Filipino boy on the line.

  "Is Mr. Homan there?" Mason asked.

  "Who is this talking please?"

  "This is Mr. Mason, the lawyer."

  "Oh, I am sorry, sah. He is very busy. He leave a message that no one is to disturb, no matter who. But perhaps . . ."

  "Okay, Felipe, tell Mr. Homan to remember that you didn't go out tonight. Do you understand? You didn't go out."

  The boy's voice showed surprise. "But I have not gone out, Mr. Mason. I am here all evening."

  "That's the stuff," Mason said, and hung up the telephone.

  Mason consulted his notebook, found the telephone number of Mona Carlyle, the employee at Rigley's Cafeteria, and called her.

  "Miss Carlyle," he said, when he had her on the telephone, "this is Mr. Mason. I am speaking on behalf of Mr. Drake. Mr. Drake offered Mrs. Warfield a position. For some

  reason best known to herself she decided not to take that position and left the hotel where she was to stay until Mr. Drake told her where and when to report."

  "I am sorry, Mr. Mason," the voice at the other end of the line said. "I simply can't help you at all. I don't know a thing about her."

  "I understand that is the case," Mason said, "but it occurs to me that she may get in touch with you within the next few hours."

  "Why? What makes you think so?"

  "I don't know," Mason said. "Perhaps it is just a hunch. When she does, would you mind telling her that I have verified my information about her husband, and that if she wants complete information about him, I will be only too glad to give it to her. But she must get in touch with me personally. Will you tell her that in case she communicates with you?"

  "Why, yes," she replied dubiously. "I will tell her, but really, Mr. Mason, I haven't the faintest idea that she will get in touch with me...."

  "I think she will," Mason said. "And thank you very much." He dropped the receiver into place.

  He returned to the table where Drake and Della Street were conversing in low tones. Della looked up, smiled, and said, "I am glad you are back. Every time they get me alone, it is the same old story."

  "Trying to pump you?" Mason asked as he sat down.

  "Uh-huh. I am afraid I am losing my sex appeal. He used to try kidding me along. Now he has changed his objectives."

  Drake said, "Dammit, Perry, you are always dragging me into some mess, and then making me go at it blind."

  "I know," Mason said soothingly, "but it is better that way, Paul. It keeps you from getting gray."

  "Well," Drake said, "couldn't you satisfy my curiosity? Just off the record?"

  "There isn't any such thing as off the record, Paul. You are too conscientious. You wouldn't take a brick out of the chimney to drop it on an escaping murderer."

  "That was a swell illustration you gave Tragg," Drake said, "but you couldn't have made it stick with me. I know you too well. You pull the house down and leave only the loose brick in the chimney standing."

  "But," Mason smiled, "I put it all back together again."

  "You have so far. This time you shall be like all the king's horses and all the king's men who couldn't put Humpty-Dumpty together again."

  "Only in this case," Mason said, "Humpty Dumpty hasn't fallen off the wall."

  "What were your telephone calls?" Della Street asked.

  "Oh, just something to keep Tragg out of mischief. He has been afraid to go after Homan, knowing Homan will pin his ears back through some political pull. Well, this time I have put him in such a position he will have to either fish or cut bait. And the second call is insurance. He will let me stay in circulation now. We may as well settle down to enjoy our dinners."

  "You aren't going to try to leave here?"

  "Not until after Tragg comes back to ask me about the young woman with whom I was seen in the elevator. I ..."

  A bus boy approached the table. "Are you Mr. Mason?"

  "Yes."

  "Lieutenant Tragg wants to talk with you on the telephone."

  Mason said, "The lieutenant is saving time. I guess you folks will have to excuse me once more. Oh, waiter. Just go ahead and serve the dinner. We will have to hurry."

  Mason went to the telephone. Tragg's voice said, "Mason, one of the elevator operators recognizes your photograph."

  "My photograph!"

  "Yes."

  "Where in the world did you get one of my photographs?"

  Tragg said, "If you think I am going to play around in your backyard without having a photograph of you all ready for emergencies, you are badly mistaken."

  "Well, that's a commendable piece of foresight. What about the elevator boy?"

  "He picked you up on the third floor. There was a young woman with you. Now what were you doing on the third floor, and who was the young woman?"

  "The bellboy has identified my picture?" Mason asked.

  "That is right."

  "The identification is positive?"

  "Absolute."

  "Then," Mason said, "the young woman must have been my client. Don't you think that is a reasonable deduction, Tragg?"

  Tragg's voice held an edge. "Mason, this is murder. I am not going to play horse. I know you usually have an ace in the hole, but this time I am calling for a showdown."

  "I can't answer any questions about any young woman with whom I was ever seen by an elevator boy in any downtown hotel at any time when any murder was committed," Mason said. "It is a policy of the office. I think that covers the situation, Lieutenant?"

  Tragg said, "Mason, I am going to let you stay out of jail until eleven o'clock tomorrow morning."

  "Why the generosity?" Mason asked.

  "Because," Tragg said, "I am going to put you on the spot. I am going to turn you loose on Homan. You have been trying to get me to stick my neck out. Now I am going to let you pull some of my chestnuts out of the fire."

  Mason said, "I don't have to ask him a single question. Mrs. Greeley's testimony will take care of everything."

  "Did you think that crude trick was going to fool me?" Tragg asked.

  "What was crude about it?"

  Tragg said, "Mrs. Greeley, you will remember, was very positive her husband wouldn't have ducked out on the girl. She was, however, conscientious enough to produce the shirt as soon as she found it. You would have been in a spot if she had simply ditched it."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "About that little alibi you fixed up for your client, Mason. When you planted that shirt, you overlooked one thing."

  "I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, it Tragg."

  "You know what I am talking about, Mason. It was a nice trick, but it didn't work. I suppose your charming secretary furnished the lipstick – and the imprint of the transferred lips?"

  "All right, you are one up on me. Tell me what was wrong."

  "The laundry mark on the shirt. You overlooked that, didn't you, Mason?"

  "What about the laundry mark?"

  "Unfortunately," Tragg said, "the laundry mark on the shirt is one of the corroborating bits of evidence that I decided should be checked. I checked on it, and it isn't Greeley's laundry mark. That shirt was planted in that bag after Greeley's death so Mrs. Greeley would find it. It was planted by some shrewd opportunist who knew that dead men can tell no tales, who knew that Mrs. Greeley, on finding that shirt, would communicate with you. And it was timed beautifully, Mason."

  "Wait a minute," Mason said, his voice showing his concern. "Whose laundry mark is it?"

  "We haven't been able to find out whose it is," Tragg said, "only whose it isn't. It isn't Greeley's laundry mark."

  "Perhaps he had it done in San Francisco."

  "No. It isn't Greeley's shirt. The sleeves are an inch and a half shorter than Greeley wears them, and, above all, the collar is sixteen and a quarter. Greeley wore fifteen and three-quarters. So I think, Mr. Mason, that we will let you cross-examine Mr. Homan about the keys in the morning. And now you are free to leave the Tangerine at any time you want. But whenever you get ready to tell me the name of the young woman who was in the elevator with you this evening, you know where to reach me. And, by the way, I won't be back to eat my steak, so you would better eat both steaks. Tomorrow

  night your diet will be much less elaborate. It will probably be some time before you have a good thick steak again."

  "Listen, Tragg, about that shirt. I ..."

  "I have told you all I am going to tell you, Mason. Miss Claire isn't out in the clear, not by a long ways. You have got to go to work on Homan in order to get anywhere, and immediately after the court disposes of the Case of the People versus Claire, you are going to tell me who that young woman was who came down in the elevator with you, or you are going to be placed in custody as a material witness. And if that should be Paul Drake's shirt, tell him he should better eat two steaks as well. Because I am eventually going to trace that laundry mark."

  And the receiver clicked at the other end of the line.

  Mason hung up the telephone, walked slowly back to the table where Della Street and Paul Drake were seated, their faces turned toward the floor show which had just started. Other patrons of the establishment were showing the mellowing effects of good liquor, good food, and a good show. Drake and Della Street looked as though they had been sitting at a funeral.

  Mason slid into his chair, pulled his steak over toward him, picked up knife and fork, and attacked the meat with extreme relish.

  "Doesn't seem to affect your appetite any," Drake said.

  "It doesn't," Mason admitted. "You have always said I would skate on thin ice, and break through, Paul. Well, get ready to smile. I have fallen in!"

  "What is it?" Della asked.

  "That wasn't Greeley's shirt. Someone planted it in the laundry bag for Mrs. Greeley to find."

  "Good God!" Drake exclaimed.

  "That means we are elected." Mason said, "Watch the floor show and quit worrying, Paul. Tragg says he won't arrest us until after I have cross-examined Homan."

  Chapter 19

  THERE WAS a tense atmosphere of excitement permeating the courtroom as Judge Cortright called the Case of the People versus Stephane Claire, and Homan once more took the stand. "Just one or two further questions, Mr. Homan," Mason said.

  "Very well. Will you try and be as brief as possible?"

  "If you will answer my questions," Mason said, "without equivocation, I think we can finish with you very shortly. Lieutenant Tragg is in court, I believe?"

  Mason turned to look at Tragg. Tragg returned the stare. His forehead puckered into a slightly perplexed frown.

  Mason said, "Lieutenant Tragg, you have, I believe, in your possession a white starched shirt with some red stains on the bosom. May I ask you to show that shirt to this witness?"

  "What is the idea?" Harold Hanley asked.

  Mason said, "You will remember that according to the testimony of the witnesses, there was a smear of lipstick on the little finger of the right hand of the defendant in this case. I ..."

  "I think that question is proper," Judge Cortright ruled. "Do you have such a shirt in your possession, Lieutenant Tragg?"

  Tragg nodded.

  "Here in court?" Mason asked.

  Tragg hesitated a moment, then reached under the counsel table, and picked up a black handbag. He opened it while spectators craned curious necks to see the shirt with its telltale smear, then Tragg handed it to Mason.

  "Thank you," Mason said. "Now, Mr. Homan, will you examine this shirt carefully and tell me whether it is yours."

  "My shirt?" Homan exclaimed.

  "Yes."

  "Great Heavens, man, I wasn't driving that car! I was here ..."

  "But please examine it just the same, Mr. Homan, and then answer my question."

  He spread the shirt out across Homan's knees.

  Homan looked at the shirt with its crimson smear. "I don't know," he said promptly. "How could I tell whose shirt it is?"

  Mason said, "Come, come, Mr. Homan. We can do better than that. Don't you know your own laundry mark?"

  "No, sir. I don't."

  Mason said, "Well, perhaps I can help you. I am sorry to bother you, but will you loosen your tie so I can see the inside of your neckband?"

  Homan complied and leaned forward. Mason read the laundry mark, "W. 362."

  "Now then," Mason said, indicating a mark on the inside of the neckband of the shirt, "you will see this shirt has the same laundry mark."

  Homan regarded the shirt with narrowed eyes, took it in his hands, turned it over, looked at the smear of lipstick, then broke into bitter expostulation. "That's a frame-up. I never saw the defendant in this case in my life. I didn't give her any ride. I ..."

  "That will do," Judge Cortright interrupted. "You will confine your answers to questions."

  "The question, Mr. Homan," Mason said, "is whether that is your shirt."

  "I don't know."

  "But it is your laundry mark?"

  "I guess so, yes."

  "And you wear a sixteen and a quarter shirt?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you see anything about it which indicates it is not your shirt?"

  "No. I guess not."

  Mason said, "Very well, I am now going to call your attention to the keys which the defendant found in her purse, and ask you if this key is a key to the ignition switch of your automobile."

  "It looks like it. I presume so, yes."

  "And do you know what this one is a key to?"

  "No, sir."

  "Doesn't it look at all familiar?"

  "No. It... wait a minute... No, I thought for a moment it looked like one of my keys, but it isn't."

  "These are not your keys?"

  "No, sir. Absolutely not."

  "Do you happen to have your keys in your pocket?"

  "Why ... yes."

  "May I see them, please?"

  "I don't see what that has to do with it."

  "The witness will produce his keys," Judge Cortright ordered. Homan reluctantly took a leather-covered key container from his pocket.

  Mason said, "Let's compare these keys and see we can find any that check. Why, yes, here are two that are identical. Can you tell me what this key in your key container is to, Mr. Homan?"

  "My yacht."

  "A lock on the cabin?"

  "Yes."

  "Now this other key. Do you have one that is identical with that key?"

  "I wouldn't know. I can remember what all my keys look like."

  Mason checked through the key container. "No," he said, "you don't seem to have one."

  Homan shifted his position.

  "Now you don't think these are your keys?"

  "No."

  "You didn't leave your keys in the car by mistake when you parked it – the day it was stolen?"

  "No."

  "You are certain?"

  "Yes."

  Mason jingled the key ring. "This third key – the one you haven't been able to identify – you haven't any idea what lock this key fits?"

  "No."

  Mason regarded him steadily for several seconds. "Eventually, Mr. Homan," he said at length, "the police are going to find the lock this key fits. It would be unfortunate if that should prove to be ..."

  "Wait a minute," Homan interrupted. "I am very absent-minded when I am working. I may have left my keys in the car when I parked it."

  "Then these may be your keys?"

  Judge Cortright said sternly, "Do you want this court to understand you don't know your own keys?"

  "Yes, Your Honor, I have so many keys ... I am afraid that ... well, you see, I am always giving keys to servants and chauffeurs, and then getting them back. These may have been some old keys I had left in the glove compartment. Yes, that must be it, some keys I had inadvertently left in the glove compartment."

  Judge Cortright looked down at the witness for several contemptuous seconds, then said to Perry Mason, "Go ahead with your questions, Counselor."

  Mason smiled. "I am finished."

  "What!" Hanley exclaimed in surprise.

  "I have no further questions," Mason announced.

  Tragg and Hanley whispered, then Hanley got up and crossed over to Mason. "What is the idea?" he whispered. "You have got him on the run."

  Mason said, "You can question him if you want to."

  "Not me," Hanley said. "I can't ride him with spurs. His studio would be gunning for my job before noon."

  Judge Cortright looked down at Mason. "Counsel will understand," he said, "that the court is interested in this phase of the testimony. There have been enough facts adduced to cast some doubt in the court's mind, but not enough as yet to overcome all of the evidence introduced by the prosecution."

  Mason said, "I am sorry, Your Honor, but I have no further questions."

  Judge Cortright hesitated, then turned to Homan. "Mr. Homan, were you driving that car on Wednesday the nineteenth?"

  "No, sir. Absolutely not."

  "Do you know who was?"

  "No, sir."

  "Where were you on Wednesday the nineteenth?"

  "On Wednesday the nineteenth," Homan said, "I was at my residence in Beverly Hills. As soon as I missed the car, and verified the fact that my younger brother was out in my yacht, fishing, so that there was no possibility he could have unlocked it with his keys, and taken it without consulting me, I reported the car as being stolen to the city police at Beverly Hills. A representative of the police called on me to ask me the details. That can be verified."