She turned to face Judge Romley.

  “I really and sincerely thought, Judge,” she went on, “that no one could make me testify if I didn’t want to because I understood it to be the law that a lawyer’s secretary couldn’t be called to testify against the lawyer’s client.”

  “That is only as to privileged communications,” Judge Romley said kindly.

  “I understand that now,” Della Street said. “I didn’t at the time. That’s why I kept quiet.”

  A man pushed his way up the aisle of the courtroom, hurried to Scudder’s side, whispered in his ear.

  Scudder listened, arose with a triumphant smile, and said to Judge Romley, “And if the Court please, as still further proof of the corpus delicti, the Prosecution will be prepared tomorrow at ten o’clock to produce the testimony of physicians who have conducted a post-mortem on the body of the deceased. If the Court please, I am just advised that the body of Carl Moar has been discovered and is being taken to the morgue.”

  The courtroom became a hubbub of excited noise.

  “Under the circumstances,” Judge Romley said, “this case will be continued until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  As the spectators milled into an excited crowd, Della Street left the witness stand. Mason pushed his way past Scudder. Newspaper photographers vaulted the mahogany rail separating the portion of the courtroom set aside for attorneys from that reserved for spectators.

  “Chief,” Della Street said, “I’m so d-d-d-darned sorry.”

  Mason held her close to him. “Poor kid,” he said.

  A newspaper reporter yelled, “Hold that pose.” Flashlights etched the scene into brilliance.

  Chapter 17

  Mason had had dinner served in his room. As waiters cleared away the tables, the lawyer grinned across at Della Street. “Don’t ever do anything like that again, Della,” he said. “I was frantic with worry.”

  “I’ll say he was,” Paul Drake chimed in. “He snapped my head off every time I spoke to him.”

  “I’m sorry, Chief, but I was afraid the newspaper reporters would exaggerate it and I knew everyone would think that I was holding something back.”

  She motioned to the late edition of an evening newspaper and said, “You can see what they’ve done. Notice this headline:

  ‘LAWYER’S SECRETARY CLAIMS SHE CANNOT IDENTIFY MURDERESS.’ ”

  Mason said, “I know. But anything is better than that suspense. Why didn’t you tell me before, Della?”

  “I tried to, Chief. I dashed all over the ship, trying to hunt you up. Then, when I found you, you’d already agreed to see Mrs. Newberry through. Honest Injun, Chief, I don’t know whether she was the one who pushed him overboard or not. I couldn’t tell at the time and I can’t tell now. But I did realize how easy it would be for people to say I was suppressing evidence, so I just made up my mind I’d say nothing about it to anyone.

  “Then, when I heard Paul tell you that the district attorney was on the trail of the witness who had telephoned the bridge and that the telephone operator claimed she could recognize the voice … well, I felt certain that sooner or later they’d suspect me, and then the newspapers would make a great fuss over it. So I thought it would be best to lie low for a few days until the preliminary was over.”

  Drake said solicitously, “Where does that leave the case, Perry? Aren’t you in a spot?”

  Mason said, “I guess so, but I’ve been in spots before. When will you get a report on that post-mortem, Paul?”

  “Just about as soon as the statement is released to the press. They—”

  He broke off as the telephone rang, and said, “That must be it now.”

  He held the receiver to his ear, said, “Drake speaking,” then looked across at Mason, nodded, and said, “This is it.” After a few moments he said, “All right. Thanks, and thanks particularly for that tip on the bullet.”

  He hung up the telephone and said to Mason, “Well, Perry, there it is. The body’s that of Moar all right. A bullet was fired into his back, just below the right shoulder blade. It ranged downward and lodged near the left hip. Death apparently wasn’t instantaneous. He’d managed to keep afloat for some few minutes. He’d stripped himself down to his underwear and managed to swim to one of the life rings which had been thrown out. He’d wedged himself inside that life ring, and died within a few minutes. Death was caused by the gunshot wound, and not by drowning.

  “Apparently, he was a strong swimmer, and had removed his coat, shirt, collar, tie and pants. He couldn’t get off his shoes because they were high-laced shoes. The knot on one was jammed as though he’d tried to get it off. He evidently died within fifteen or twenty minutes of the time he reached the life ring. It’s funny they didn’t see him from the ship.”

  Mason said, “There was such a sea running and such a driving rain it was impossible to make any thorough search. The ship was bobbing around like a cork, and the rain was coming down in torrents. It seemed to bolt up the light from the searchlights.”

  “Well, Drake said, “here’s something else: He was shot with a thirty-eight caliber bullet, but that bullet wasn’t fired from the revolver they found on deck.”

  Mason snapped to startled attention. “It wasn’t?”

  “The ballistics expert says it wasn’t.”

  “And he was only shot once?”

  “That’s right. Just the one wound which entered in the back on an angle. That probably was the shot which was fired into him as he was balanced on the rail.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mason said, “there were two shots fired. Aileen Fell says she heard two shots, and there were two exploded chambers in the gun.”

  “That’s right,” Drake said. “But the bullets from that gun didn’t kill Carl Moar. He must have been killed by a bullet fired from another gun.”

  “Then there should have been three explosions,” Mason said.

  Drake nodded.

  Mason abruptly got to his feet, pushed his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor. After several minutes, he turned to stare thoughtfully at them.

  “I know what may be a solution,” he said. “It makes sense, and it’s the only thing which does make sense. But I can’t unscramble it until I can get Eves and Evelyn Whiting into court.”

  “Well, you can’t get them into court,” Drake said. “I’ve had men running down every clue, Perry. It’s hopeless. Eves is no amateur. He knows the ropes, and he’s gone into hiding. It would take the concerted efforts of an organized police force to land him.”

  Della Street said, “Chief, couldn’t you go to the district attorney and tell him what you have in mind and have him put the police on the job?”

  “Not so you could notice it,” Mason said. “If Scudder thought he could help me dig up witnesses to prove Mrs. Moar innocent, his lack of enthusiasm would be utterly astounding.”

  “Well,” Della Street said, “he showed plenty of enthusiasm when it came to finding me.”

  Mason nodded. Suddenly a twinkle appeared in his eye. “Now, Della,” he said, “you’ve given me a real idea.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “We’ll make Scudder think that I’m concealing Eves and Evelyn Whiting. Once he gets that idea, he’ll move heaven and earth to uncover them.”

  “And just how are you going to make him think you’re concealing them?” Drake asked.

  Mason looked at his watch. “Got a set of skeleton keys, Paul?” he asked.

  Drake said, “Oh, my Lord! I should have known better than to have brought this up in the first place.”

  Mason grinned, “Get your burglar’s outfit, Paul. We’re going to do a little high-class house breaking.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Has it ever occurred to you,” Mason asked, “that we’ve overlooked the most significant clue in this entire business?”

  “What?” Drake inquired.

  “The fact that the woman in the picture shop mentioned that Evelyn Whiting had purchased a picture frame, an oval desk frame which would take a picture which had been trimmed down from an eight-by-ten print?”

  Della Street grabbed his arm. “Chief, do you mean that she was the one …”

  Mason grinned at Paul Drake. “I’m commencing to feel natural again, Paul,” he said. “Scudder has been so smug and complacent throughout this entire business that it’s time we exploded a dynamite bomb under him.”

  “And I take it,” Drake said, “we’re going to violate a law?”

  “Well,” Mason told him, “the legality of our position is going to be rather technical, Paul. We’re going to break and enter, but not for the purpose of committing a felony.”

  “For what purpose, then?” Drake asked.

  “For the purpose of leaving a choice assortment of fingerprints,” Mason told him.

  Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry. If you only knew how nice and peaceful it was when you were in Bali!”

  Mason climbed the wooden stairs which led up the back of the flat on Stockton Boulevard. Behind him, Paul Drake was a silent shadow. Della Street, seated in a rented car, with the motor running, was parked in the alley.

  Drake muttered, “I don’t like this a damn bit, Perry. If we get caught it’s a felony, and if he comes in he’ll spray us full of lead.”

  Mason whispered, “You have a cheerful mind, Paul.”

  They climbed to the service porch on the rear of the third-story flat. Fog which drifted in from the ocean blanketed the city, lowering visibility, distorting sounds. The mournful drone of fog signals could be heard at intervals. Fog-bred moisture dripped from the eaves.

  Mason inserted a skeleton key. The lock clicked back. Mason gently opened the door.

  Drake said, “If he should be in there, Perry—”

  His voice trailed into silence. The men stood waiting.

  Mason took a flashlight from his pocket. “Come on, Paul.”

  The beam of the flashlight sent a long, white pencil of illumination stabbing through the darkness. It showed a kitchen, with its windows tightly closed. An odor of stale cooking and rancid frying fat clung to the room.

  Mason led the way through the kitchen to a dining room and living room, then into a bedroom. His flashlight showed a wheel chair. “That’s Cartman’s wheel chair, Paul,” Mason said. “And you’ll notice that someone did some hurried packing here. Notice the way things have been pulled from the drawers. Look at the empty coat hangers in the closet. See the imprint on the bed where a suitcase has been placed.”

  “Well,” Drake said, “Eves had a lot of baggage and his wife had been over in Honolulu—”

  “His wife,” Mason said, “wasn’t living here with him. She’d been living with her sister. Her clothes weren’t the ones which were taken from those hangers … Hello, what’s this?”

  The beam of his flashlight reflected from a rounded strip of wood enameled and polished to a high brilliance. The bit of wood was perhaps an inch and a half in length, splintered at both ends and partially curved.

  Drake inspected the piece of wood and said, “A piece of wood from a molding somewhere. He probably—”

  Mason abruptly dropped to his knees, sent the beam from the flashlight sliding along the floor. “Look for splintered pieces of glass, Paul,” he said. “See if you can find—”

  “Here’s one,” Drake said, picking up a small fragment of glass.

  “And here’s another,” Mason told him.

  “What’s the idea?” Drake said. “Do you think there’s been a fight here, or—”

  Mason said, “Let’s take a look at the garbage can on the service porch, Paul.”

  Drake said, “Listen, Perry, I don’t like this. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but we’re going at this thing all wrong. We’re—”

  Mason walked toward the service porch, taking the flashlight with him. Drake, perforce, followed, Mason lifted the lid from the garbage can, took out several opened tin cans, some halves of orange peel, then a long sliver of glass. “We’re on the right track, Paul,” he said, and a moment later handed up a long, curved segment of enameled, rounded wood.

  “This must have been a picture frame,” Drake said.

  Mason nodded, fished from the garbage can a crumpled, cracked, oval photograph. He smoothed it out. The likeness of Belle Newberry laughed up into the flashlight. The beam of light showed the words inscribed on the photograph in ink, “To Daddy, With Love, from Belle.”

  Mason pushed the photograph back into the can, took Drake’s arm, led him back into the flat and said, “That’s all we need, Paul. We’ll leave a few fingerprints and get out.”

  “Why fingerprints?”

  “So the district attorney can know you’ve been guilty of breaking and entering,” Mason said. “He’ll probably stick you on a kidnaping charge, as well. Here’s a good place on the dresser mirror, Paul. And you can put some fingerprints on that table.”

  “Now wait a minute, Perry. If you—”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said, pressing his hand against the mirror on the dressing table.

  Drake gingerly touched the top of the table as though it were hot.

  Mason laughed, lowered his shoulder, pushed his weight against Drake and snapped off his flashlight. The detective, stumbling about in the darkness, grabbed at the table to keep himself from falling, then clung to a chair.

  Mason switched on the flashlight and said, “Come on, Paul, you old criminal. Let’s get out of here.”

  Drake said, “Perry, will you please tell me what’s the idea of all this horse-play?”

  “Wait until you hear the D.A. describe it in court tomorrow,” Mason said. “Come on, Paul. Do you want to leave, or do you want to stay here and argue?”

  “I want to leave,” Drake said, “and you can’t make it too snappy for me.”

  Mason led the way out the back door, locking it behind them.

  “Okay?” Della Street asked, as Mason reached the alley.

  “Okay so far,” Mason told her. “You’ve memorized the story you’re to give Scudder?”

  “And how!” she told him.

  “Let’s go,” Mason said, settling back against the cushions.

  Drake closed the door. Della Street lurched the car into motion. They left the alley for the boulevard, drove half a dozen blocks and slowed in front of a drug store.

  “Come on, Paul,” Mason said, “you might as well get an earful of this.”

  Drake said, “I always get suspicious when you throw it in high and don’t tell me what you’re doing, Perry. You and Della take more chances than any airplane stunters in the world.”

  Mason took Drake’s arm, led him into the rear of the drug store where there was a telephone booth. Della dropped a nickel, dialed a number with swiftly competent fingers and said, “Hello. … Hello. … Let me talk with Mr. Scudder, please, at once. … This is very important. … Tell him I have some information for him. … It’s about a case he’s trying tomorrow.”

  She glanced up from the transmitter and nodded to Perry Mason. A moment later she said into the telephone, “Hello, Mr. Scudder. This is Mrs. Morgan Eves talking. I’m the real Mrs. Eves; but I don’t want you to ever tell anyone that I called you. My husband’s a crook. You’ll find his record under the name of James Whitly or James Clerke. … Now, wait a minute, don’t interrupt me, please. This is something about the case you’re trying. … My husband’s now going under the name of Morgan Eves. He’s divorcing me, but he only has an interlocutory decree. The final decree hasn’t been entered yet. But that hasn’t stopped him any. He’s gone through a marriage ceremony with a nurse. Her name’s Evelyn Whiting. They have a flat at 3618 Stockton Boulevard. Evelyn Whiting is the nurse who came over on the ship on which Carl Moar was murdered. She was nursing a man named Roger Cartman who had a broken neck, and he saw the whole murder. … Yes, I say he saw it. The nurse had to give him some treatment. She took him up to the hospital quarters and he was sitting there in the wheel chair when Carl Moar was killed. He saw the whole thing.

  “Roger Cartman paid Evelyn Whiting to take care of him. He didn’t know she was married. She took him to the flat on Stockton Boulevard and told him she was renting it for him. She and Morgan Eves were just planning to knock down a little money on the side. Then they found out he was a witness, and they got in touch with Perry Mason, and Perry Mason paid them five thousand dollars to get the witness out of the country. … Cartman wanted to testify, but he’s helpless. Yes, I know what I’m talking about. Mr. Mason and Mr. Drake, the detective, were up there and they moved Cartman out. He has a broken neck and can’t do anything by himself. … In case you want an eyewitness who can testify to exactly what happened, all you have to do is to get Mr. Cartman and if it’s against the law for Mr. Mason to pay money to have a witness put into hiding, you can get Mr. Mason, too. … But don’t you ever mention my name or they’d kill me.”

  She slammed the receiver back on the hook and said, “How did I do, Chief?”

  “You did swell,” Mason said. Drake shook his head mournfully. “My God!” he said. “I always lead with my chin.”

  “What’s next on the program?” Della Street asked.

  Mason said, “We have a couple of hours to kill. How about a picture show?”

  “Suits me,” Della Street said.

  “How would you like a good mystery play, Paul?” Mason asked.

  Drake said, “That’s the first really smart thought you’ve had all evening, Perry. I suppose you have some sort of a plan in mind, but it’s more than I can figure. I think you’ve gone plumb crazy.”

  “Not quite that bad, Paul,” Mason told him. “There’s a method in my madness.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Drake said. “To me it seems like one of those goofy dreams, where everybody does cuckoo things. Honest to God, Perry, when Della was telephoning to Scudder, I expected any minute to have you chime in with a station announcement and ask the D.A. how he liked the amateur hour.”