Mrs. Gentrie, visibly perturbed, said, “I wish, Mr. Mason, you could handle this without prying into Mr. Steele’s business.”

  Mason said, “Don’t you see, Mrs. Gentrie? Steele got this room for a purpose. He must have made a habit of opening this door at night after you folks had retired, quietly sneaking down the cellar stairs, going through the garage door, and across to the flat next door. If he didn’t go inside the flat, he at least snooped around the windows and got a line on what was going on inside the place.”

  “Why . . . why, I can’t believe it.”

  “And,” Mason went on, with a significant glance at Della Street, “he’s very apt to be over there right now.”

  “But why should he want to spy on the people over there?”

  Mason said, “He’s evidently in the employ of some Japanese. I understand Lieutenant Tragg thinks some of the people over in that flat could tell something about the smuggling of arms into China.”

  “You mean Mr. Hocksley?”

  Mason said, “There’s evidence indicating that Hocksley has been engaged in Chinese gun-running for years.”

  “Well, good heavens!”

  “And Steele evidently secured this room because it gave him such an excellent opportunity to keep an eye on what was going on next door.”

  “Well, I’ll declare! Why, then he must have been—he must—why, Mr. Mason, that would make him . . .”

  “Exactly,” Mason said.

  “Then don’t you think we’d better communicate with the police, Mr. Mason?”

  “Not yet,” Mason said. “Just keep quiet so we don’t disturb anyone. We’ll do a little investigating on our own.”

  Mason led the way to the cellar door, opened it silently, tiptoed down the cellar stairs. Mrs. Gentrie clicked a light switch which flooded the cellar with brilliance.

  Mason inched his way over toward the shelf where the preserves were kept, keeping his eyes, however, on the garage door. “Now, as I understand it, this is the door which was painted. Your husband painted it the evening of the murder. . . . Where is he, by the way?”

  She said, “I made him go to bed. He couldn’t have done any good by sitting up, and he’s going to have a hard time at the store waiting on all of the customers without Junior to help him. That’s one thing about my husband. No matter what happens, he can sleep like a log. I don’t think he ever actually worries about anything. I don’t mean by that he isn’t concerned over the situation. He simply doesn’t worry about it. If he knew he was going to be executed tomorrow, I don’t think he’d lose a minute’s sleep. He’d simply say, ‘Well, if it’s going to be that way and there’s nothing I can do about it, there’s no reason for losing any sleep over it.’ ”

  Mason turned then, casually, so he could look at the shelf on which he had placed the can. Apparently, the can had not been disturbed. He noticed that Della Street was also looking at it. She turned, caught his eye, then looked hastily away.

  Mason said, “Now, is there any chance that your son could have got his fingers in that paint in some other way than off the garage door? Your husband must have brought this paint home when he came from the hardware store.”

  “That’s right, but he didn’t mix it until after Junior had gone out.”

  “Now, this door, I take it,” Mason said, “is not kept locked.”

  “No. It isn’t. But the outer door to the garage is. There’s a spring lock on that, and Mr. Hocksley has the keys to it. I believe he has three or four duplicate keys.”

  Mason said, “Let’s take a look in his garage.” He opened the door and stepped inside. “Is there a light in here?”

  “Yes. There’s a drop light somewhere, and a string that turns it on. Here it is.”

  She pulled the string and clicked a light on.

  “There’s no automobile here in the garage,” Mason said.

  “No. The police took the one that was here. There were bloodstains on the cushions, and they wanted to take fingerprints and things like that. They’ve never brought the car back.”

  “I see. Now this door on the side opens into the yard which communicates with the flat.”

  “That’s right. But you’ve been over this before, Mr. Mason.”

  “I know,” Mason said, “but I want to be sure I’ve got the thing correctly fixed in my mind. There’s a spring lock on this door. It can be opened from the inside without a key. And by pressing that catch, the latch can be held back so the door isn’t locked. Just as it is now.”

  Mrs. Gentrie looked at it and said, “Why, land sakes! That door is unlocked! We always keep that locked. I remember looking at it just this morning, and it was locked then. The latch was in position.”

  “Then,” Mason said, “quite obviously, the lock must have been changed, either by someone who had a key, unlocked it from the outside and threw the catch into position, or by someone who entered the garage through the cellar of your home, Mrs. Gentrie. Now, of the people who live in the other house, Mr. Hocksley has either been killed, or has disappeared. His housekeeper has been murdered. Opal Sunley, who acted as stenographer, is the only one who remains. Was she there today, do you know?”

  Mrs. Gentrie said, “I saw her going to the flat this morning—and I don’t know why, for the life of me. There certainly couldn’t have been any work for her to do.”

  “Well, of the people in your house, who could have been down here? Mr. Steele?”

  “Well, he might have been. He does have the run of the house like a member of the family. When Mr. Gentrie is down here, Steele will come down to talk with him for a While; but it’s in the same way he helps Rebecca with her crossword puzzles, just something to furnish an excuse for a visit.”

  “The children were here after school?”

  “Yes, the younger children.”

  “Junior didn’t get home until quite late, as you’ve mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rebecca was here?”

  Mrs. Gentrie shook her head. “No. Rebecca had that crossword-club meeting this afternoon, and then went to the opera from there.”

  “What time did she get in?”

  “Around midnight. She was full of talk about the opera, and a lot of gossip that didn’t interest me in the least.”

  “Now, she went upstairs to bed without coming down to the cellar?”

  “Yes. She was all dressed up in her best bib and tucker. You couldn’t have got her near the cellar.”

  “Who else was down here? Your husband?”

  “Yes, Arthur was down here. He spends a good deal of time here in the evenings. But I’m quite sure Arthur would never have left that door unlocked. He’s very methodical about those things.”

  Mason thought that over for several seconds. Abruptly, he turned away from the door. “I guess on second thought,” he said, “there’s no use making any further investigation at this end. Better lock that door now, hadn’t you?”

  Mrs. Gentrie snapped the catch on the door. “Yes, we’ll leave it locked. I don’t like the idea of having that door left unlocked. Anyone could come into the house without our knowing it—just walk right in.”

  Mason said, “That’s right. Why don’t you put a lock on that door that leads to the cellar? There’s no necessity for anyone who uses the garage to use the cellar, is there?”

  “No. There really isn’t. I was telling Arthur sometime ago we should have a lock put on there, but after we’d rented it to Mr. Hocksley, it looked a little as though we might have been suspicious of him. Arthur said we should either have put it on at the time we first rented the garage to him, or else wait until after he’d moved out and we had another tenant.”

  “Yes, that sounds logical,” Mason said, and yawned. “Well, it’s time for me to turn in.”

  Della Street was watching him closely, her forehead puckered into a curious frown.

  Mrs. Gentrie made no attempt to conceal her concern. She asked, “What am I going to do about Junior? I’ve got to do something for him. That’s what I wanted to see you about. Isn’t there something we can do? And what about Steele?”

  “Let it go until noon,” Mason said. “By that time, I’ll have found out just what Tragg’s planning to do. In all probability, he just wanted to make the boy talk and used that method to do it.”

  “Well, he won’t talk, not as far as that woman is concerned.”

  Mason started for the cellar stairs. “Well, there’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  “You’ll find out about Junior in the morning?”

  Mason nodded. “First thing,” he promised.

  “Please be quiet going out,” she requested. “I don’t want anyone to know I was down in the cellar at this hour, or that I’ve been up so late.”

  At the front door, Mason whispered, “Try and get some sleep if you can. There’s nothing you can do. I’ll get busy just as soon as things open up. Good night.”

  He opened the car door for Della Street. She jumped in with a quick, lithe motion, then switched on the dome light and looked over behind the rear seat.

  Mason laughed. “Why the precautions?”

  She said, “I haven’t felt easy in my mind since you set that trap and used yourself as bait.”

  “You noticed the can was still on the shelf?” Mason said.

  “Uh huh. That must mean that it was Steele who was getting the messages.”

  Mason started the car. “There are one or two other possibilities.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Tragg nabbed Junior before he had a chance to go down in the basement.”

  She thought that over, said, “That’s right,” then remained silent. Just before Mason turned into her street, she said, “I guess I haven’t what you call a logical mind. The more I think of it, the dizzier I get.”

  Mason said, “Go to sleep and forget it.”

  She showed him that she was worried. “Look here, are you holding out on me?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because when the police find Steele’s body, we’ve got our necks in a noose, yet all of a sudden you’re acting as though there was no particular hurry.”

  “There isn’t,” he said.

  “Sometimes I could slap you!”

  “Here’s my cheek,” he said. Then, after a moment, “If that’s a slap, I’ll turn the other cheek.”

  Della laughed lightly as she jumped from the car. “Don’t forget to wipe off that lipstick. ’Night!”

  “ ’Night,” Mason said, and stood watching her as she ran swiftly up the steps of her apartment house.

  Chapter 18

  Mason was drifting into that warm lethargy which comes just before sleep when the telephone by the side of his bed rang with shrill insistence.

  He groped for the receiver, said, “Hello,” in a drowsy voice. “What is it?”

  The voice which came over the wire was hysterical, the words intermingled with sobs. “This is Mrs. Gentrie. I could see that you knew all the time. I can’t last it out. Do what you can for Junior. I got into this for him. I suppose murder is never justified, but then a mother—that Opal Sunley was—Mr. Mason, I can’t—please don’t let Junior hold it too much against me. You’ve got my fingerprints. The message in the tin said so. Lieutenant Tragg switched tins. I had a pencil in my pocket and surreptitiously made a copy of the message. You were too clever for me. I knew there was no use fooling you. I know you’ll try to stop me, but you can’t do it. You’re clever, Mr. Mason—too clever. Good-by. I. . .”

  Mason interrupted her, his voice thick with the accents of a man who has been drinking heavily. “Thash a’right, sister. Go right ahead. Have you li’l fun. Betcha you don’t know what I’ve been doin’. I’ve been shelebratin’ a weddin’ party. Rodney Wenshton got married. Li’l Doris Wickford. Nishe girl, too. Lotsh champagne! Ran onto ’em coupla blocks down street. Never dranksh sho much champagne ’n all my life. Now, don’t try talk no bus’ness with me now. Tomorrow—tomorrow—I tol’ you I’d try gettin’ Junior out tomorrow—hie, yesh, tomorrow—tomorrow I be a’right. Goo’-by!”

  Mason dropped the receiver into place, flung off the covers, stripped off his pajamas, wrapped a robe around him, pushed his feet into slippers, and raced down the corridor to where a pay telephone was ensconced. Mason dropped a coin, dialed Operator, and said, “Get me police headquarters just as quickly as you can. This is an emergency. Rush that call.”

  Almost at once, Mason heard a voice saying, “Yes, this is headquarters.”

  “Perry Mason. Is Lieutenant Tragg where I can get in touch with him?”

  “No, Lieutenant Tragg’s off duty. He . . . What’s that? . . . Just a minute. . . . Oh, hello. They say he just came in from San Francisco. Want to talk with him?”

  “Get him at once,” Mason said. “It’s important as the devil.”

  “Hold the line.”

  A few seconds elapsed, then Mason heard Tragg’s crisply hostile voice saying, “Yes, Mason, this is Tragg.”

  “Lieutenant, don’t stop to argue. Throw out a call lor radio cars that are in the vicinity. Send them rushing to the Gentrie residence. No sirens. Handle it very quietly, but get into that house and hold every person there until you can get there. Don’t let anyone have a chance to kill anyone else or to commit suicide.”

  “What’s the idea?” Tragg asked.

  “Dammit,” Mason said irritably, “I told you not to argue. Do what I tell you to, and you’ll be having the congratulations of the chief tomorrow. Fall down on it, and you’ll be on the carpet right. I’ll meet you there.”

  Mason didn’t stop to give Tragg any further opportunity to argue, but slammed up the telephone receiver; then sprinted back down the corridor to his room. He flung off the robe and dressed in frenzied haste. When he had his clothes on, he paused long enough to dial the number of Della Street’s apartment.

  “Hello,” he heard Della Street’s sleep-drugged voice saying.

  “Wake up,” he told her. “The lid’s blown off.”

  “Who? . . . What? . . . Oh, yes,” she said, crisp wakefulness flowing into her voice. “Where are you?”

  “Just leaving for the Gentrie house. Get a taxi and get up there as fast as you can. Bring a notebook. Better bring a portable typewriter. We might even get a confession out of it. You can’t tell. The criminal seems properly repentant; but every second counts now. I’ve got to rush up there. Be seeing you.”

  Mason dropped the receiver, picked up his hat, and dashed out of the apartment without even taking time to switch off the light.

  Through an arrangement with the garage attendant, Mason’s car was parked in a position where it was always ready to go, and Mason had only to fling open the door, jump into the seat, and step on the starter. The garage-man watched him careen around the corner of the driveway, shook his head dubiously; then looked at his watch. It was five minutes past five in the morning.

  “That guy should join a union,” the attendant muttered to himself.

  Two radio cars were already parked in front of the Gentrie residence when Mason arrived, and, as he was switching off the ignition to his car, Lieutenant Tragg, in one of the fast cars of the Homicide Squad, came skidding around the corner.

  Mason paused at the foot of the front steps to beckon to Tragg. Tragg, running across to join him, said, “I certainly hope you’re not giving me a bum steer on this, Mason.”

  “I hope so, too,” Mason said. “Let’s go.”

  Tragg tried the front door. It was unlocked. The men pushed their way into a strange gathering. Four radio officers were guarding the members of the Gentrie household: The younger children, huddled and frightened; Rebecca, swathed in a heavy robe, her hair in curlers, her face without make-up, her eyes glittering with indignation; Mrs. Gentrie, trying to take things philosophically; Arthur Gentrie, clad in pajamas and bathrobe, managing a prodigious yawn as Mason and Lieutenant Tragg entered the room.

  “Perhaps,” Rebecca snapped to Lieutenant Tragg, “you’ll be good enough to tell me what this is about.” Tragg made a graceful little bow, turned to Mason, and said, “Perhaps, Counselor, you’ll be good enough to tell me what this is about.”

  Mason grinned with relief as he saw the little household assembled under the eyes of the radio officers. “My telephone rang a few minutes ago,” he said, “and Mrs. Gentrie confessed to having committed the murders and said she was going to shoot herself.”

  Mrs. Gentrie said promptly, “Why, I never did any such thing. I absolutely deny it. You’re crazy, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason grinned at her. “It was your voice all right. By pretending to be so drunk that I couldn’t have been trusted to remember what happened or what was being said over the telephone, I threw the contemplated suicide out of schedule.”

  “I tell you I didn’t telephone you,” Mrs. Gentrie said indignantly. “If you say that I did, you’re saying something that’s not so.”

  “Of course,” Mason went on, “your voice sounded somewhat strained, which was only natural in view of the fact that you were hysterical, but there were certain little mannerisms of expression which were undoubtedly yours.”

  “You’re crazy,” Mrs. Gentrie announced flatly.

  “You also told me,” Mason said, “something which came as a very valuable piece of information—that Lieutenant Tragg had found the can I had planted on the shelf, and removed the top, that he had then placed another decoy can there. That explained a feature of the case which had hitherto puzzled me.”

  Mrs. Gentrie said, “That’s true about lieutenant Tragg. He told me not to say anything about the tin; so I didn’t. I didn’t have any idea you’d put the tin there.”

  Tragg turned to Mason. “You planted that?” he asked.

  Mason nodded. “To help clear up the case. I could have had it solved earlier if it hadn’t been for your interference there.”

  “But I put a tin back to take its place,” Tragg said, “and had the same code message copied and placed in the lid.”

  Mason smiled. “But don’t you see that the person for whom the message was intended was present when you opened the tin, and so actually got the message without the necessity of having the can removed from the shelf. You crossed me up there, Lieutenant.”