at irregular intervals. Sometimes the letters stay in his mailbox two or three weeks before they are taken out.

  "But, get this, Perry – no one has ever seen Spinney!

  "It is a fact. He rented the room one night by sending a taxi driver in with some money and hand baggage. He has a room with a private outside entrance. He comes at night and he goes at night. No one knows whether he will come in tonight and leave tomorrow before daylight, or come three weeks from now, stay a half hour while he bats out some stuff on his typewriter, and then vanish again.

  "Of course, people have had glimpses of him, but not close enough to get stuff that would give me a description. He is a man. He is between twenty and fifty. He is not very thin and not very fat. He wears an overcoat and a felt hat and quite frequently he is seen wearing evening clothes. Got it? A man in a cheap rooming house wearing evening clothes?"

  Mason's eyes were partially closed in concentration.

  "One of these letters is in his mailbox now," Drake went on. "My operative was afraid to steam it open, but he held the envelope up in front of a powerful light. He was able to see there was a money order in it and a letter. We managed to photograph that letter without opening the envelope.

  "How?" Mason asked.

  "Oh, it is a simple dodge. You put a piece of film in front of the envelope, clamp it firmly, turn on the light, and develop the film. Because the letter is folded, you get a scramble of slanting lines, but with a little care you can make out what's in the letter. This one said: 'I am sending fifteen dollars which is all I can possibly spare this month. I wish he could write to me. Tell him I carry on somehow, but if he would only write, it would make me so much happier.'"

  "How was the letter signed?"

  "Just Lois."

  "Who is the money order from?"

  "Lois Warfield."

  "Check on her?" Mason asked.

  "Sure. What do you think they are paying me for?"

  "Darned if I know. Go ahead."

  "She was frightened to death when my New Orleans correspondent contacted heir. She wouldn't talk. She is working in a cafeteria. One of the girls in the cafeteria gave my correspondent a little dope. Mrs. Warfield has only been in New Orleans a short time. Her husband left her a couple of years ago – some trouble over his thinking she was going to have a baby – and then she didn't. They were estranged for over a year, then she told him she still loved him and was saving money to come out and join him. He was supposed to be in Hollywood. Next thing she got a letter from one of the

  husband's friends saying something had happened, that Warfield was in a jam, couldn't even communicate with her himself. Evidently he was dodging cops and was afraid they would watch her mail. She was in Ridgefield, Connecticut, then. She wrote this friend she was coming west to see if she could help, and started working her way across the country. When she hit New Orleans, she got a letter saying her husband was in jail. He had done something so reprehensible, he wanted her to forget him. But she stuck. So she keeps herself broke sending money to pay for a lawyer who is going to try to get the husband's sentence shortened to ten years, or something like that. My operative had to get it second-hand. Mrs. Warfield wouldn't talk."

  "How much does Homan make in salary?" Mason asked.

  "Probably three or four thousand a week, perhaps more, perhaps less. You can't tell. Those Hollywood salaries are one thing for the publicity releases, and another for the income tax."

  Mason pushed back his swivel chair, got up, and started pacing the floor.

  "I hated to go as strong on it as I did," Drake apologized. "This girl with the upholstery hasn't got a lot of jack. Wires and that stuff cost money."

  "You can't trace Spinney?"

  "Not with anything I have been able to do so far. He comes and he goes. When he goes, he disappears. He got a wire a few days ago."

  "Can't you get a copy of that wire?"

  "It is illegal to ..."

  "Phooey! Are you arranging to get a copy?"

  "If I can, yes."

  "Think you can?"

  "I don't know. It isn't easy. Someone will have to go into the telegraph office, say he is Spinney, and ..."

  Della Street tapped on the door from the law library, opened it, said, "Hi, Paul. Hope I am not intruding. I have a message, just came from your office."

  She handed Drake a folded sheet of paper. Drake opened it, read it, passed it over to Mason. "Copy of the telegram," he said.

  Mason read, "HAVE LANDED JOB IN RIGLEY'S CAFETERIA LOS ANGELES WANT TO BE NEAR HIM WILL EXPLAIN WHEN I SEE YOU CAN HITCHHIKE ALL THE WAY – LOIS."

  Mason tore the paper into small pieces, dropped them into his wastebasket, looked up at Della Street, and said, "Get me the person in charge of employment at Rigley's Cafeteria, Della. Tell him it is important."

  Della Street nodded, stepped into her own office to put through the call.

  Drake said, "Taken by and large, Perry, I hate to see this girl railroaded on a manslaughter charge."

  Mason grinned. "You have sold me, Paul."

  "Going to handle her case?"

  "I'm going to see she isn't railroaded as the fall guy for some Hollywood producer."

  "Might be a good idea for you to run out and have a chat with her, Perry. She is pretty low, and she doesn't look the sort who is accustomed to being down in the dumps."

  "They haven't made a formal charge yet?"

  "They are filing one today. She is being held in the hospital. The D.A.'s office is going at it hammer and tongs. I can't understand their eagerness – unless something is behind it."

  Della Street said, "Here is your party on the line, a Mr. Kimball."

  Mason picked up the telephone, said suavely, "Mr. Kimball, this is Perry Mason, the lawyer. I am interested in getting some information about a girl you have promised a job to."

  Kimball became vocally cordial "Yes, indeed, Mr. Mason, I will be glad to give you anything I can. I heard you in court on that dog case. That was a masterly presentation. What can I do for you?"

  "I want to find out about a Mrs. Warfield who is coming on from New Orleans," Mason said.

  "Oh."

  "What is the matter?"

  Kimball laughed apologetically. "I am not certain I can help you much there, Mr. Mason. She has a friend working here. The friend tried to get her a job, and I – well, I said thought it would be all right."

  "When is she arriving in town?"

  "She isn't coming."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "I – well, I changed my mind."

  "Can you tell me why?"

  Kimball's voice sounded strained and embarrassed. "I am sorry you asked me that, Mr. Mason. Almost anything else I could tell you, but this I don't feel at liberty to discuss. I – well, the vacancy that I expected would occur didn't materialize, and I had to tell her friend that it was no go. Would you mind telling me what your interest in the matter is?"

  Mason laughed. "I am more embarrassed at your question than you are at mine. I can't discuss the affairs of a client. Is that all you can tell me about it?"

  "I am sorry, Mr. Mason. That's all."

  "Something you found out about her that made you change your mind?"

  "No. ... I think we will have to let it go at that, Mr. Mason. The vacancy didn't materialize."

  "All right, thanks," Mason said, and hung up.

  "No go?" Drake asked.

  "No. Something happened, and he decided to drop her like a hot potato."

  "Wonder," Drake said, "if that something could have been a little whisper from Hollywood."

  Mason said, "You are either reading my mind or making a damn good stab at it." He walked over to the closet, picked up his hat and coat. "Come on, Della," he said. "Let us go out and take a look at Stephane Claire. I want to see how you react."

  "She is all wool," Drake said, and then added after a moment, "and her friend is a yard wide."

  Della Street brushed aside Drake's comment. "Don't take him too seriously. She is a platinum blonde," she said, "and you know Paul."

  Mason grinned.

  Drake said, "Honestly, Della, she is a good kid."

  "I will take a look," Della Street said laconically.

  Mason said to Drake, "You've got an opening in your office, Paul, for a receptionist."

  "I have?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "What are you talking about? My receptionist ..."

  "Needs an assistant," Mason interrupted, "temporarily, at any rate. Have your New Orleans correspondent tell Lois Warfield to come on out to the Coast and he can get her a job. Advance her bus fare. I have enough hitch-hiking troubles on my hands for the present. I want to be sure she gets here in one piece."

  "You are taking over," Drake asked, "– financially?"

  "I am taking over," Mason said, "and Hollywood is going to pay for it."

  "This Horty girl is about at the bottom of her war chest."

  "I am just at the top of mine," Mason said. "With a setup like this, if I can't make someone in Hollywood pay for it, I would better quit practicing law."

  Drake sighed. "I was hoping you would look at it that way," he said, and jackknifed up out of the chair.

  Mason, putting on his coat, said, "I think it would be a swell idea, Paul, to pick up a photograph of Jules Carne Homan."

  "So do I," Drake said. "I have been trying to for the last twenty-four hours. It can't be done."

  Mason stood by the door of the closet, staring at the detective. "You mean to say a Hollywood producer hasn't pictures of himself draped all over Hollywood?"

  "That's right. Homan is one of the boys who is camera-shy."

  "Go out to Photoplay. They have got one of the best photographers in the business. There isn't any such thing as hiding from his lens – not if he wants a picture badly enough, and he wants everyone who is anyone."

  "That's an idea," Drake said.

  Mason nodded to Della Street. "Come on, Della. Let us go pat the bunny."

  Chapter 7

  THE BIG transcontinental bus rumbled into the terminal. Travel-weary passengers came out through the door and walked into the depot to await the distribution of baggage.

  Drake, with the skill of a professional detective, carefully scrutinized each face without seeming to pay the slightest attention to any of them.

  "Okay, Perry," he said out of the side of his mouth, "this will be the one we want, the one with the tan coat and the brown hat."

  Mason studied the woman as she walked toward him. She was, he saw, around thirty years old. She was very slender, not with a skinny angularity of figure, but small-boned and light-muscled. Her cheekbones were a little too prominent. The skin across her forehead seemed stretched tight, and her eyes were tired. Her hair was a dark chestnut, and evidently it had been some time since it had received the services of a professional hairdresser. It seemed stringy and thick with travel dust as it curled out from the sides of a small hat.

  "What is the move?" Drake asked, looking at the cigar stand.

  "Cold turkey," Mason said.

  "Okay, you want me in on it?"

  "Yes."

  Mrs. Warfield was looking around her now, as though rather expecting someone to meet her.

  Drake said, "She would be a good-looking gal if she had the glad rags and a couple of hours in a beauty shop."

  Mason said, "She wouldn't be bad looking right now if she would get her shoulders back. She is pretty tired. Okay, Paul, here we go. She is looking at us."

  Mason walked forward, ostentatiously studying every person in the bus terminal. He let his eyes rest on Lois Warfield, turned away, then suddenly stopped, turned back, looked dubious, and after a moment tentatively raised his hat.

  She smiled.

  Mason moved toward her. "Are you Mrs. Warfield?" he asked.

  She nodded, her tired, bluish-gray eyes showing a quick sparkle of animation.

  "Are you the man who was – who has the job for me?"

  "Perhaps."

  There was swift disappointment on her face. "Why, I thought it was thoroughly understood."

  Mason's smile was reassuring. "Don't worry, Mrs. Warfield. I think it is all right. If it isn't, I shall pay your expenses back on the bus."

  "But I don't want to go back. I gave up my job there to come out here. I need the work. I can't afford to stop working for a minute. I have obligations."

  Mason said, "I want you to meet Mr. Drake. ... Oh, Paul! Here she is."

  Drake turned toward them, raised his hat, bowed, and muttered an acknowledgment of the introduction.

  "Had dinner?" Mason asked abruptly.

  "I... er..."

  Mason laughed. "Come on. We can eat and talk at the same time."

  She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and said, "Very well. There is a counter in here."

  Mason grinned across at Paul Drake. "We long-legged men need more room than that. I can't enjoy food when my knees are pressing up against the side of a lunch counter. Know some place around here, Paul?"

  "Yes. There's one in the block."

  "You don't mind walking a block?"

  She laughed. "Good heavens, I am on my feet all day. I shall bet I walk miles."

  They walked down to the restaurant. When they were seated in a curtained booth, Mason said, "I am the one who suggested the job to Mr. Drake."

  "What sort of a job is it? I understand I was to be a receptionist in an office."

  "That's right."

  Her face lighted. "And the salary was eighty dollars?" she asked eagerly.

  Mason slowly shook his head. "No. I am afraid you misunderstood that."

  There was a flash of anger in her eyes, then bitter disappointment. "I see," she said wearily in the voice of one who is accustomed to being imposed upon. "However, I distinctly understood – well, never mind. Just tell me what you are willing to pay."

  "The salary," Mason said, watching her, "is a hundred dollars. Drake wants his receptionist to dress well. She couldn't do it on a salary of eighty dollars."

  Mrs. Warfield was staring at him.

  "We would have to know something about your background," Mason went on.

  "But I thought you understood all that."

  "Only that you were attractive, willing, and wanted a job on the Coast. You are married, of course?"

  "Yes."

  "Husband living?"

  She hesitated a moment, then said, "Yes."

  "You are divorced?"

  "No."

  "Just separated?"

  "Well, were not together – temporarily."

  Mason looked at Drake. Drake pursed his lips and said, "That is not so good. I thought you were either a widow or divorced. Husbands sometimes make trouble."

  "My husband won't make any trouble."

  "Well, you know how it is," Mason said. "Suppose you have to work late at night, and . . ."

  "Anything that the job calls for, I will do," she interrupted.

  Mason said, "You would have to get a bond, of course, and the bonding company would want to know something about your husband."

  "What would he have to do with my bond?"

  Mason's laugh was cheery. "Darned if I know, but they certainly do stick their noses into your private business."

  Drake said, "When you come right down to it, Perry, they do have a crust. What difference does it make where the woman's husband is or what he does?"

  Mason said, "Well, I suppose it would make a difference under certain circumstances. You know, he might have a criminal record somewhere. Where is your husband, Mrs. Warfield?"

  The waitress came to take their orders.

  "Cocktail?" Mason asked Mrs. Warfield.

  She hesitated.

  "I think she wants one," Mason said. "Three dry martinis, and put lots of authority in them."

  The waitress nodded and left.

  "Well?" Mason asked.

  "Oh, my husband?"

  "That's right."

  "He ... he is ... Look here, I don't think he would care to have it known where he was."

  Mason's face showed disappointment and certain reproach. "We are taking you pretty much on trust," he said. "Our friend in New Orleans seemed anxious to get the job for you and recommended you so highly we decided to..."

  "Oh, I am sorry," she interrupted. "I—I can't very well explain."

  Mason's voice was cold. "Well, of course, if you wish to adopt that attitude, Mrs. Warfield."

  "Oh, but I don't. Can't you understand? It is ... it is something that I can't very well tell you."

  "Just as you please," Mason said with formal politeness, lighting a cigarette. "Would you care for one, Mrs. Warfield?"

  She blinked back sudden tears, shook her head. "No, thank you."

  Drake's eyes were sympathetic. Mason frowned at him.

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Mrs. Warfield said, "And I suppose that costs me the job?"

  Mason glanced at Paul Drake, made a little motion with his shoulders, and went on smoking.

  "All right," she said suddenly with feeling in her voice, "have it your own way. I am sick and tired to death of the whole lousy business. Every time I work for anyone, I give him value received, but any time I try to get a job, the person acts as though it is charity or something. It isn't charity. It is a business transaction. I w-w-work for a man, and I draw a s-s-salary, and the man makes a p-p-profit on what I do. All right. Keep your job!"

  She pushed back her chair.

  The waitress came in with the cocktails.

  Mason said, "No reason why we can't buy you a dinner, Mrs. Warfield. Have a cocktail. It will make you feel better."

  "No, thanks."

  "Better wait," Mason said. "I am very sorry this happened. And there is the matter of your return transportation, you know."