“All right,” Mason said, “suppose they were right? This kid’s young. Conway wanted to use her in that check business. The way he sold her was by promising to marry her when he made the stake.”

  “Think he strung her along for the check business?” Drake asked, easing the car into gear.

  “Of course, he did,” Mason said.

  “How about his family?”

  Mason said, “There may be something there.”

  “Why all the agony over just cashing a check?” Drake asked. “That doesn’t amount to so much.”

  “That,” Mason said, “is our most significant clue. It amounted to a hell of a lot in this case.”

  Phyllis Leeds and John Milicant were waiting in Mason’s reception room when the lawyer returned to his office.

  John Milicant, a baldish, black-haired, stocky man in the fifties, walked with an almost imperceptible limp—a slight favoring of his right foot. He shook hands, sat down, crossed well-creased, gray trousers, consulted his wrist watch and said, “Phyllis said you wanted to find out something about Alden Leeds. I’d appreciate it very much if you could rush things. I have an appointment I’m stalling off.”

  Mason said, “You understand there’s going to be a family row?”

  Milicant nodded. “Of course, Alden is right as a rivet. He’s a little peculiar at times, just a little eccentric. He’s no more crazy than I am.”

  “You’ve had an opportunity to observe him during the last few weeks?” Mason asked.

  “During the last month mostly,” Milicant said. “I drop in once in a while.”

  Phyllis interposed. “Uncle Alden gets a great kick out of John. John’s about the only one who can give him a good fight over the chess board.”

  Milicant said, “I don’t know whether he and Sis are going to hit it off or not. I don’t care. It’s up to them. I hope Sis has enough gumption to have it understood she’ll never touch a cent of his money. She doesn’t need it.”

  “You mean you’d like to have him leave it to the relatives?” Mason asked.

  Milicant said, “If I were in his shoes, Phyllis would get everything.”

  “Have you shot any craps with him lately?”

  “Yes. Sunday, I believe it was.”

  “High stakes?” Mason asked.

  “A two-bit limit. But if you made a pass, you could let it ride and keep on building up.”

  “Would you consider it was being too personal if I asked you how much he won?”

  Milicant said, “He didn’t win. I won somewhere around a hundred dollars, enough to get a suit of clothes. But he seemed to get a great kick out of losing.”

  “I think it was because he was getting entertainment,” Phyllis Leeds said. “You know, John, you keep up a running fire of comment.”

  Milicant laughed. “Well, I was always trained to talk to the dice. You can’t expect them to do anything for you if you don’t tell ’em.”

  Mason said, “Just a moment. I want to find out about some papers. If you can wait just a moment, Mr. Milicant, I won’t detain you over five minutes.”

  Milicant was again regarding his wrist watch as Mason strode across the office, entered the law library, and then detoured through the corridor door to Paul Drake’s office.

  Mason nodded to Drake’s secretary, raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation, and pointed toward Drake’s private office. She nodded, and Mason went on in to find the detective sitting in his little cubicle, his feet on the desk, reading a paper.

  Mason said, “Paul, I’m damned if I know whether this is just a hunch or whether I’m naturally getting suspicious of my fellow men. John Milicant is in my office. He’s around fifty-five, about five foot ten in height, fairly stocky, wears good clothes, bald on top, and has a slight limp.”

  Drake frowned, and said, “What are you getting at, Perry?”

  “Read that description again—the one that you have of L. C. Conway.”

  “I get you,” Drake said. He pulled out his notebook, glanced through the description and said, “It fits. Of course, Perry, it would fit a lot of men.”

  “I know,” Mason said, “but it’s worth a play. Milicant will leave my office in about two minutes. Do you have an operative you can put on his tail?”

  “I’ll have a man on him when he leaves,” Drake promised.

  Mason returned to his own office, said, “I wanted to look up a matter. I won’t need to keep you any longer, Mr. Milicant.”

  Milicant crossed over to shake hands with Mason. “If there’s anything I can do,” he said, “don’t hesitate to call on me.”

  “I won’t,” Mason said, and then to Phyllis Leeds, “How are you making it?”

  Her face showed hard lines. There were puffs under her eyes. “All right,” she said. “It would be a lot better if I thought Uncle Alden was all right.”

  “He’s all right,” Mason said. “Some doctor has him under opiates right now. That habeas corpus is going to scare them into the open. How’s Barkler getting along?”

  “I don’t know. He isn’t there. I don’t know where he went.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Early this morning.”

  “Say where he was going?”

  “No. He’s peculiar. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

  Mason said, “All right. Go on back home. Try and get some rest. Take it easy. This is just preliminary skirmishing. Save your energy for the main fight. When we have that habeas corpus hearing, keep Emily Milicant out of the picture. I don’t want her to seem too interested.”

  “Why?” John Milicant asked.

  “Judge Treadwell might think she was waiting to sink her hooks into Leeds as soon as the court freed him,” Mason said.

  “I get you,” Milicant nodded. “That’s good advice. Come on, Phyllis. I have to rush to keep an appointment.”

  Chapter 4

  Judge Treadwell’s courtroom was well crowded. Phyllis Leeds, seated within the bar, looking ill at ease, returned Mason’s reassuring smile with a nervous twist of the lips.

  She indicated that she wanted to whisper to him, and Mason bent down so his ear was close to her lips. “Why all the people?” she asked.

  Mason said, “Newspaper notoriety, money, romance, and a fight. People flock to that combination like flies to a honey jar.. . . Now can you give me a line on the other relatives without seeming to point them out?”

  “I think so,” she said. “That’s Jason talking with the lawyer now. The man seated back of him is Uncle Freeman.”

  Mason sized them up, and said, “Your Uncle Freeman looks like an opinionated cuss.”

  “He is,” she said. “When he once gets an idea in his head, you can’t blast it out with dynamite.”

  “We’ll let Judge Treadwell do a little blasting,” Mason said.

  “Jason’s just as bad,” she said, “only he’s more clever. He’s a mealy-mouthed hypocrite who always tried to make Uncle Alden feel he loved him—taking him for auto rides and all that.. . . There’s Harold Leeds, Freeman’s boy—the one walking on tiptoe. He does everything that way around home. When he can break away, he’d like to be a real sport; but he doesn’t stand much chance. Freeman keeps him under his thumb, won’t let him have a car, doesn’t approve of. . .”

  She broke off as the bailiff suddenly pounded the courtroom to its feet. The door from chambers opened, and Judge Treadwell, walking with slow dignity, marched up the three carpeted stairs to the platform at the end of the courtroom and took his seat behind the mahogany “bench.” The bailiff mechanically intoned the formula which announced that court was in session, and, a moment later, Judge Treadwell looked down at Perry Mason, and said, “I’d like to ask a few questions of the applicant.”

  Mason, on his feet, nodded toward Phyllis Leeds. “Stand up and be sworn, Miss Leeds,” he said. “. . . walk right up to that desk. Did Your Honor wish to have counsel examine the witness?”

  “No,” Judge Treadwell said. “The court will ask the questions. How old are you, Miss Leeds?”

  “Twenty-three,” she answered in a voice high-pitched from nervousness.

  “And your uncle is living with you?”

  “Yes—that is, he was. I keep house for him, and keep his books.”

  “Now, I’d like to know something about the family,” Judge Treadwell said in a conversational voice. “Your uncle, I take it, is not married.”

  “No, Your Honor. He’s always been a bachelor.”

  “Tell me about the family.”

  “There’s Uncle Freeman, a younger brother of Uncle Alden, his son, Harold, and Jason Carrel.”

  “Jason is the son of a sister?” Judge Treadwell asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. She’s dead. She was the youngest in the family—that is, of the sisters.”

  Judge Treadwell asked kindly, “How do you get along with your uncle, Miss Leeds?”

  “Very well,” she said, “but anyone would get along with him. He never loses his temper, is kind, courteous, and considerate.”

  “And how about the other members of the family?” Judge Treadwell asked. “How do they. . .”

  Opposing counsel was on his feet. “Your Honor,” he said, “I dislike very much to object to the court’s question.”

  Judge Treadwell turned to him. “Don’t do it then,” he said.

  “I feel that in the interests of my client I must.”

  “You’re representing Freeman Leeds?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, Freeman Leeds, Harold Leeds, and Jason Carrel.”

  “What’s the ground of your objection?”

  “That this is simply an application for a writ of habeas corpus. The petition alleges on information and belief that Alden Leeds is being detained against his will. I propose to show that such is not the case. The man is in the custody of loving relatives, under medical care which is an urgent necessity.”

  “You’ll have your opportunity,” Judge Treadwell said, calmly. “Right at the present time, the court is trying to find out something about the family affairs and the general situation of the parties.”

  “I understand, Your Honor, and that’s what I object to. I claim that is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial and not a part of this hearing.”

  “Objection overruled,” Judge Treadwell said, and then, as the lawyer remained on his feet, observed mildly, “If you have any other objections to make, make them, and the court will rule. If you have none, sit down.”

  The lawyer sat down.

  Judge Treadwell turned to Phyllis Leeds. “How about the other members of the family?” he asked. “How do they get along with your uncle?”

  “Same objection,” opposing counsel snapped.

  “Same ruling,” Judge Treadwell said calmly.

  “Why, they get along with Uncle all right—that is, they did until—until Uncle Alden—I hardly know how to express it.”

  “Made outside friends?” Judge Treadwell asked.

  She nodded her head vigorously.

  “I think that’s all,” Judge Treadwell observed. “I notice that the petition alleges that Alden Leeds was taken for an automobile ride by Jason Carrel, and failed to return. I think I’ll ask a few questions of Mr. Carrel. Come forward please.”

  Jason Carrel, a thin young man in the thirties with high cheekbones, close-set eyes, and a mop of coal black hair which grew low on his forehead, came forward and was sworn.

  “From reading the return to the writ,” Judge Treadwell said, when Carrel had stated his name, age, and residence to the clerk, “I understand you took your uncle for an automobile ride.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “What did you do with him?”

  “I took him to a sanitarium when he exhibited symptoms of. . .”

  “You’re not a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask your uncle if he wanted to go to a sanitarium?”

  “No, I thought . . .”

  “Never mind what you thought The question was whether you asked your uncle.”

  “No. I didn’t think he was in any condition to give an answer.”

  “He was conscious?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You were talking with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he make any objection to entering the sanitarium?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And how was the objection overcome?”

  “Well, I stated to the doctor that. . .”

  “That’s not the question,” Judge Treadwell interrupted, kindly but firmly. “How was his objection overcome?”

  “Two male nurses carried him in.”

  “I see,” Judge Treadwell observed in the tone of finality. “I think that’s all.”

  “Your Honor, I have a showing I’d like to make,” the lawyer for the relatives said. “I feel that I’m entitled to. . .”

  “Go right ahead with your showing,” Judge Treadwell announced. “Court will hear any witnesses you care to produce—you have Alden Leeds in court?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “The court order was that you produce him here.”

  “We understand, Your Honor, but he is physically unable to attend. We have Dr. Londonberry, who is here to testify on that point.”

  “Very well,” Judge Treadwell said, “let him testify.”

  Dr. Londonberry was in the middle fifties, inclined to flesh. His complexion was ruddy, his gray eyes cold and professional, but his manner was plainly nervous. As he took the witness stand, he adjusted nose spectacles from which hung a wide, black ribbon.

  Judge Treadwell leaned forward to appraise him, while the doctor was being qualified as an expert, then settled back in his chair with an air of complete detachment.

  “You are acquainted with Alden Leeds?” the lawyer asked.

  “I am.”

  “When did you first see him?”

  “When he was brought to my sanitarium in an automobile driven by Jason Carrel.”

  “That was the first time you had seen Alden Leeds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now we won’t ask what Jason Carrel told you. We only want to know what you saw and what you did. Please tell the court exactly what happened.”

  In the precise, clipped voice of a professional man who is prepared for a grueling cross-examination, Dr. Londonberry said, “I was called to the automobile. I found a man approximately seventy-two years of age, somewhat frail in physical appearance, and apparently suffering from a well-developed psychosis. He was incoherent in his speech, violent in his actions. I immediately noticed a well-defined arcus senilis on the pupil of the right eye—an arcus senilis, I may explain, is due to a hyaline, degeneration of the lamellae and cells of the cornea. It is, in my experience, indicative of the first stages of senile dementia.

  “Disregarding, as I am afraid I must, because of the narrow latitude which is permitted me in my testimony, the history of the case and confining my testimony solely to what I myself saw, learned, and did when the patient had entered the hospital, I examined him for consciousness, orientation, hallucinations, delusions, idea association, memory, and judgment. I had already observed his unstable emotions.”

  “What did you find?” the lawyer asked.

  “I found a case of well-defined senile dementia.”

  “And what is your suggestion in regard to this patient?”

  “He should be placed under proper care and observation. With the passing of time, he will show a progressive mental deterioration and complete inability to handle his business affairs. He will become increasingly susceptible to blandishments, false friendships, and fraud. The progress of the disease can be stayed somewhat by proper care and treatment, relief from business worries, and particularly from the necessity of making decisions.”

  “And it was at your suggestion, Doctor, that the patient was not brought to court this morning?”

  “Not only at my suggestion but because of my positive orders. In his present nervous state, the patient would become highly excited if he were brought into a public hearing. I would not care to be responsible for the results following such an appearance. Mr. Leeds is a very sick man mentally.”

  “You may cross-examine,” the attorney said to Perry Mason.

  Mason sat slumped down in the mahogany swivel chair at the counsel table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his chin sunk on his chest. He did not look at the witness. “The patient was incoherent when you first saw him?” he asked, tonelessly.

  “Yes.”

  “Excited?”

  “Yes.”

  “Angry?”

  “Yes.”

  “And from these things you diagnosed a senile dementia?”

  “From those things and the other things.”

  “Well, let’s take them up in order. These things helped to give you a diagnosis of senile dementia, did they not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anger and irritability are symptoms of senile dementia, Doctor?”

  “Yes, sir, definitely.”

  “And I believe there is another similar disease, isn’t there, Doctor, dementia praecox or schizophrenia?”

  “That is not the same as senile dementia.”

  “So I understand, Doctor. In cases of dementia praecox, as I understand it, there is a condition of mental ataxia. The patient develops a state of apathy, becomes utterly indifferent to his surroundings, and cares nothing about what is done with him.”

  “That is right.”

  “Mr. Leeds was not suffering from that disease?”

  “Certainly not. I have explained my diagnosis to you.”

  “If, on the other hand, you had noted any unnatural apathy of the emotions, you would have suspected dementia praecox?”

  “I would have suspected it, yes.”

  “Well,” Mason said moodily, still with his chin on his chest, “let’s see where that leaves us, Doctor. A man, aged seventy-two years, goes out riding with his nephew. The nephew abruptly detours him to a sanitarium. Two male nurses come out of the sanitarium and start dragging him out of the car. You appear upon the scene. You find the patient angry and, as you have expressed it, incoherent. Wouldn’t it be natural for a patient to be angry under such circumstances?”