Della Street and Paul Drake came up to stand beside Mason.

  “Looks like a break, Perry,” Drake said.

  “It’s about time,” Mason told him. “It certainly has been a hoodooed case.”

  “But what does it mean, Perry?”

  “Frankly,” Mason said, “I’ll be darned if I know. I guess there’s no question but what that was Faulkner’s handwriting on the check stub.”

  “I understand there’s a handwriting expert who will swear to it,” Drake said.

  “A good one?”

  “Yes.”

  “What I can’t understand,” Della Street said, “is why the man should write out the stub of a check and then tear the check out. Of course, Faulkner was equal to anything, and he may have intended to have it appear he had given Tom Gridley a thousand-dollar check.”

  “But it wouldn’t make any difference if his books had shown he’d given Gridley twenty one-thousand-dollar checks. Not until Gridley cashed the check would there be any actual payment of money. There’s something a lot deeper here than appears on the surface. And I’ve really overlooked a bet.”

  Paul Drake said, “I’ve just found out something, Perry. I don’t know whether it will help or not, but somewhere around eight-thirty, the night of the murder, someone rang up Tom Gridley. He said he wanted to talk a little business, but wouldn’t give his name. He said he wanted to ask just one or two simple questions. He then went on to say that he understood Gridley was having a dispute over some money matters with Harrington Faulkner and that Faulkner had offered Gridley seven hundred and fifty dollars for a settlement.”

  Mason’s eyes were alert with concentration. “Go on, Paul. What did Gridley say to that?”

  “Said he didn’t know why he should discuss his affairs with a stranger, and the man’s voice said he wanted to do Tom a favor, that he’d like to know if Tom would settle for a thousand.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then Tom, being sick and irritable, said that if Faulkner had a check for one thousand dollars in his hands before noon of the next day he’d settle, if it meant anything to anyone, and slammed up the phone and went back to bed.”

  “To whom has he told this?” Mason asked.

  “Apparently to the police. He hasn’t held anything back with the police and they’re giving him what breaks they can. They tried for a while to fit that conversation in with the thousand-dollar check stub. Their best guess was that someone was acting as intermediary and had already got the thousand-dollar check from Faulkner and was trying to clean things up.”

  “But why?” Mason asked.

  “Search me.”

  “And that conversation was around eight-thirty?”

  “There we run into a snag. Tom Gridley had been in bed with fever. He was terribly nervous and all worked up over his dealings with Faulkner, and Faulkner buying the pet store and all that stuff. He had been just dozing off, and he didn’t notice the time. A while later, after he’d thought things over a bit, he looked at his watch, and it was then around nine ten. He thinks the call was around a little more than half an hour before he looked at his watch. . . . That’s a poor way to fix time. It might have been right around eight-twenty, or it may have been quite a bit later. The point is that Gridley swears it wasn’t before eight-fifteen because he’d looked at his watch at eight o’clock and then had been awake for several minutes before he dozed into a light slumber.

  “That’s the story, Perry. The police didn’t think much of it after they found they couldn’t tie it in with the check for one thousand dollars, and particularly since Tom wasn’t certain of the time.”

  “It wasn’t Faulkner, Paul?”

  “Apparently not. Tom said it was a strange voice, the voice of a stranger to him. The man seemed rather authoritative, as though he knew what he was doing, and Tom had thought it might have been some lawyer Faulkner had consulted.”

  “It could have been, at that,” Mason said. “Faulkner had those lawsuits which demanded attention. But why wouldn’t any lawyer have come forward? Hang it, Paul, the conversation must have taken place right about the time Faulkner was murdered.”

  Drake nodded, said, “On the other hand, it may have been someone who thought he had a chance to settle things, someone whom the wife had consulted, or perhaps someone Carson had asked to get things straightened out.”

  “I prefer the wife,” Mason said thoughtfully. “It sounds like her. By George, Paul, it must have been someone the wife consulted! I’d certainly like to know where she really was the night of the murder.”

  Drake said, “I’ve had men nosing around, but we can’t find a thing. Sergeant Dorset gave her the chance to frame that alibi, and the police are taking it at its face value.”

  “I’ll bet Tragg smells a rat,” Mason said.

  “If he does, he’s keeping his nostrils from quivering even the least bit,” Drake replied. “He isn’t going to stir up any stink in the department merely because Sergeant Dorset let a woman pull the line that she was going to have hysterics and so get a chance for a frame-up. You know, Perry, if Mrs. Faulkner had said she wanted to go out and see her girl friend before Dorset questioned her, they’d have given her the merry ha-ha, and then really given her a third degree. But she says she feels ill, goes out to the back porch, goes through the motions of being sick, and then starts having hysterics, and Dorset is so anxious to get her out of the way until he’s finished his investigation that when she says she wanted to have one of her girl friends come over and stay with her, Dorset practically jumps down her throat telling her to go ahead.”

  Mason nodded, said, “I’m beginning to get an idea, Paul. I think that . . . Here’s the judge coming back to the bench. Looks as though he had really taken things into his own hands . . . Bet he’s going to give us the breaks from now on. He’s certainly mad enough at the cops.”

  Judge Summerville returned to the bench, once more called court into session and said, “Gentlemen, the Court has arranged over the telephone with one of the best consulting criminologists in the city to take charge of that check and see what can be done toward developing latent fingerprints on it. Now do you gentlemen wish to go on with the case? I am frank to state that in view of the peculiar development, the Court will be inclined to give the defense an adjournment in case the defendant wishes it.”

  “I think not,” Mason said, “not at the moment, anyway. Perhaps as the evidence progresses . . . ”

  “I don’t think I’d like that,” Medford interrupted. “In other words, the counsel for the defense is adopting the position that we’ve got to go on putting on our case and showing our hand and then, at any moment, when the defendant wants to, the defendant can call for an adjournment. I think if there’s any question about it, we should adjourn the case until after the fingerprints have been developed on that check.”

  Judge Summerville said crisply, “The Court’s offer was made to the defense. I don’t think that the prosecution is entitled to ask for an adjournment when a valuable piece of evidence, I may say a most valuable piece of evidence, has been permitted to all but slip through its fingers, and would have gone entirely unnoticed if it hadn’t been for counsel for the defense. Proceed with your case, Mr. Medford.”

  Medford took the court’s rebuke with the best grace he could muster. “Of course, your Honor,” he said, “I am merely presenting the case as developed by the police. It is not the function of my office to . . . ”

  “I understand, I understand,” Judge Summerville interrupted, “the fault undoubtedly lies with the police, but on the other hand, gentlemen, it is quite evident that it is not the function of the attorney for the defendant to come into court and point out evidence, the significance of which has been entirely overlooked, both by the police and the prosecution. However, that is neither here nor there. Mr. Mason says that he does not care for an adjournment at this time. The Court will state frankly that it will be inclined to give Mr. Mason a reasonable adjournment whenever it is made to appear that it would prejudice the defendant’s case to go on with the examination before all of the evidence is in on that check. Call your next witness, Mr. Medford.”

  “Lieutenant Tragg,” Medford said.

  Tragg had never been in better form than when he got on the witness stand. In the manner of an impartial, skillful police officer who is only doing his duty and has no personal interest or animosity in the matter, he began to weave a net of circumstantial evidence around Sally Madison, and then, when he testified to the occasion of picking up Sally Madison on the street and finding the gun and the two thousand dollars in bills in her purse, he sprang the bombshell which Ray Medford had been so carefully preparing.

  “Now then, Lieutenant Tragg,” Medford said, “did you examine that weapon for the purpose of developing any latent fingerprints?”

  “Certainly,” Tragg said.

  “And what did you find?”

  “I found several latent fingerprints which retained sufficiently distinct characteristics so that they could be positively identified.”

  “And whose fingerprints were they?”

  “Four fingerprints were those of the defendant.”

  “And the others?” Medford asked in a voice that held just a note of conscious triumph.

  “The other two fingerprints,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “were those of Miss Della Street, the secretary of Mr. Perry Mason, and the one who, at the request of Perry Mason, had taken Miss Sally Madison to the Kellinger Hotel in an attempt to keep her from being questioned.”

  Medford glanced quickly at Mason, not knowing that Paid Drake’s detectives had already tipped Mason off to this point in the evidence, and thinking that he would encounter some expression of dismay.

  Mason merely glanced casually at the clock, then looked inquiringly over at Medford.

  “Have you finished with the witness?” he asked.

  “Cross-examine,” Medford snapped.

  Judge Summerville held up his hand. “Just a moment,” he said. “I want to ask your witness a question. Lieutenant Tragg, are you quite certain that the fingerprints you found on that weapon were actually those of Miss Della Street?”

  “Yes, your Honor.”

  “Showing that she had touched that weapon?”

  “That is quite right, your Honor.”

  “Very well,” Judge Summerville said in a voice that showed his appreciation of the gravity of the situation, “you may cross-examine, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason said, “You’ll pardon me, Lieutenant Tragg, if I perhaps review some of your testimony, but as I understand it, you have made a very thorough check of the movements of Harrington Faulkner on the afternoon of the day he met his death?”

  “From five o’clock on,” Tragg said. “In fact, we can account for every move he made from five o’clock until the time of his death.”

  “And he went to the Rawlins pet store sometime after five o’clock?”

  “Yes. He went to the bank, got the money and then went to the Rawlins pet store.”

  “And he was there some time taking inventory?”

  “Around an hour and forty-five minutes.”

  “And while he was there he noticed this revolver?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And put it in his pocket?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then, according to your theory of the case, when he went to his home he took the gun out of his pocket and put it down—perhaps on the bed?”

  Tragg said, “The gun was in his hip pocket. He went home, took off his coat and shirt and started to shave. It’s only natural to suppose that he took the gun out of his pocket.”

  “Then,” Mason said suavely, “how does it happen that you didn’t find any of Mr. Faulkner’s fingerprints on the gun?”

  Tragg hesitated a moment, said, “The murderer must have wiped all fingerprints off the gun.”

  “Why?”

  “Obviously,” Tragg said, smiling slightly, “to remove incriminating evidence.”

  “Therefore,” Mason said, “if the defendant had been the one who committed the murder and had thought enough of the problem of fingerprints to have wiped all fingerprints off the gun she would hardly have gone ahead after that and left her own fingerprints on it, would she?”

  Tragg was obviously jarred by the question. He said, “Of course, you’re assuming something there, Mr. Mason.”

  “What am I assuming?”

  “You’re assuming that I know something of what was in the defendant’s mind.”

  “You’ve already testified to what was in the mind of the murderer,” Mason said. “You have testified that the murderer wiped the fingerprints off the weapon to remove incriminating evidence.' Now then, I am asking you if that theory is consistent with the theory that Sally Madison committed the murder.”

  Lieutenant Tragg obviously realized the force of Mason’s suggestion. He shifted his position uncomfortably.

  “Isn’t it far more likely that she is telling the truth, and that she picked up the gun in order to remove it from the scene of the crime, knowing that it was Tom Gridley’s gun?”

  “I’ll leave that up to the court,” Tragg said.

  “Thank you,” Mason announced, smiling. “And now, I want to ask you a couple of other questions, Lieutenant Tragg. It is the theory of the police, I believe, that Harrington Faulkner was writing this check stub and was about to write the name Tom Gridley in the check stub when he was shot?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The fact that he had written only the first three letters of the last name, and the fact that the checkbook was found where it had fallen on the floor, are the things on which you predicate your conclusion?”

  “That, plus the fact that the fountain pen also fell on the floor.”

  “Don’t you think that something else might have interrupted the deceased?”

  “Such as what?” Tragg asked. “I’d be glad to have you mention something that would cause a man to stop writing in the middle of a name that way.”

  “Perhaps the ringing of a telephone?” Mason asked.

  “Not a chance in the world,” Tragg said. “. . . that is, if you want my opinion.”

  “I’m asking for it,” Mason said.

  “If the telephone had rung, the decedent would certainly have finished the name ‘Gridley’ before he answered the telephone. And he wouldn’t have dropped the checkbook on the floor and wouldn’t have dropped the fountain pen on the floor.”

  “Therefore,” Mason said, “the thing that prevented the decedent from finishing writing the name ‘Gridley’ was the fatal shot?”

  “I think there’s no other conclusion.”

  “You have talked with a gentleman named Charles Menlo?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, without anticipating Mr. Menlo’s testimony, I believe you know that Mr. Menlo will state that he was talking with the decedent on the telephone at the time when someone, apparently the defendant, entered the house and was ordered out by Mr. Faulkner?”

  “This, of course, is very irregular,” Medford interposed.

  “I think counsel is simply trying to save time,” Judge Summerville said. “Do you want to object to the question?”

  “No, I think not. There’s no question about Mr. Menlo’s testimony.”

  “That’s right,” Lieutenant Tragg said.

  “Therefore,” Mason went on, “if it had been the defendant who entered the house at that time . . .”

  “She admits that she did,” Tragg said. “Her own written statement covers that point.”

  “Exactly,” Mason went on. “And if she found the door open and entered, encountered Harrington Faulkner in the bedroom, talking on the telephone, and if Faulkner then tried to eject her and she snatched up the gun and shot him, she could hardly have shot him while he was writing a check stub in the bathroom, could she?”

  “Wait a minute. How’s that again?” Tragg asked.

  Mason said, “It’s quite obvious, Lieutenant. The police theory is that Faulkner was telephoning when Sally Madison came into the room. Faulkner still had some lather on his face. He was running water in the bathtub. He ordered the defendant out. There was a struggle. She saw the gun lying on the bed and picked it up and shot him. Now then, if she had shot him while he was struggling with her in the bedroom, she couldn’t have shot him while he was writing that check stub in the bathroom, could she?”

  Tragg said, “No,” and then after a moment added, “I’m glad you brought up that point, Mr. Mason, because it makes the murder a deliberate, cold-blooded murder instead of one committed in the heat of rage.”

  “Just how do you reason that out?” Mason asked.

  “Because Faulkner must have gone back to the bathroom and picked up the checkbook and started writing the check stub when she shot him.”

  “That’s your theory now?” Mason asked.

  Tragg said, smiling, “It’s your theory, Mr. Mason, and I’m now beginning to think it’s a good one.”

  “And when Faulkner fell as the result of that shot, did he upset the table containing the bowl in which the goldfish were swimming?”

  “He did.”

  “But,” Mason said, “there was a graniteware container and one goldfish in the bathtub. How do you account for those?”

  “I think one of the fish must have fallen into the bathtub.”

  Mason smiled, “Remembering, Lieutenant, that at that time Faulkner was drawing hot water for a bath. How long do you think the fish would have lived in hot bath water and how do you think the graniteware container got in the bathtub?”

  Tragg frowned, thought for a few seconds, then said, “I’m not a mind reader.”

  Mason smiled courteously. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for that concession. I was afraid that you had been trying to qualify as such. Particularly in regard to your comments as to the fingerprints of Della Street on the gun. For as you know, those prints might have been put on the gun before the murder.”

  “Not the way you’ve explained it,” Tragg said. “The murderer must have wiped all fingerprints off the gun.”