“What?”

  “Write a letter to be delivered to the authorities in the event of his death and then leave that letter just hanging around anyplace without making some arrangements for its delivery.”

  Mason nodded.

  Della Street said, “He must have made some arrangements for the delivery of that letter.”

  “Exactly,” Mason told her, “which is why we’re going to start our search with the secretarial desk in this office.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Della Street said.

  “We’re following the wishes, in fact, the instructions of our client,” Mason told her, “and at least we’re finding out what it’s all about.”

  Mason slid back the drawers in the steel desk, disclosing stationery of various sorts, carbon paper, and in a bottom drawer of the desk a whole thick file of correspondence in a jacket marked “For Filing.”

  Mason glanced at the dates on some of the letters, said, “Ed Davenport’s secretary seems to feel that there’s no hurry about keeping up the files.”

  “Perhaps she was waiting for enough correspondence to accumulate to make filing worthwhile.”

  Mason tried the right side of the desk and found that all of the drawers were locked.

  “Got a nail file, Della?”

  “Are you going to try and pick that lock?”

  Mason nodded.

  “Chief, do we have the right to look in there?”

  “Why not?” Mason asked. “We’re searching for papers for the surviving widow.”

  “It seems sort of—well, we’re intruding upon someone’s privacy.”

  Mason took the nail file Della Street gave him and worked away at the lock. After a few moments a bolt clicked back and the drawers on the right side of the desk came open.

  “Those are personal things,” Della Street said sharply.

  “I know,” Mason said, “but we’re looking specifically for—What’s this?”

  “That,” Della Street said, “very definitely is a lockbox.”

  Mason shook the lockbox. “There seems to be just one document in it,” he said. “This may be what we want. Despite the look on your face, Della, my curiosity is rapidly overcoming my scruples. I don’t suppose you would have such an article as a hairpin on you.”

  She shook her head.

  Mason tried the end of the nail file on the lock. ‘I ‘m going to need something smaller than this nail file. A little piece of stiff wire would do it.”

  “Where,” Della Street asked, “did you learn that technique?”

  “A client taught it to me,” Mason said, grinning. “My only fee for defending him on a burglary charge.”

  “I suppose you got him acquitted.”

  “He was innocent.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. He learned that lock-picking in a correspondence school I take it.”

  “Strangely enough,” Mason said, “he really was innocent. The lock-picking was a carry-over from his lurid past. Ah, here’s a paper clip made of good, stiff wire. Now it only remains to bend the wire, so … to insert it in the back, rotate it slightly, and—Ah, here we are, Della.”

  Mason opened the lid of the box and took out a fat manila envelope. On the back of the envelope, scrawled in a firm handwriting, had been written, “To be opened in the event of my death and the contents delivered to the authorities,” and underneath the writing was the signature “Ed Davenport.”

  “Now, Mr. Attorney,” Della Street said, “perhaps you can tell me the technical rules of law. Is this the property of the widow, does it belong to the authorities, or is it the property of the secretary in whose desk it was located?”

  “We’ll find out what’s in it,” Mason said, “and then we’ll be able to answer some of your questions.”

  “It might be better to answer them first.”

  Mason smilingly shook his head. “We have to know the contents before we can determine our responsibilities, Della.”

  Mason went to the kitchen, filled a teakettle with water, switched on the electricity in the stove.

  “You certainly are making yourself right at home,” Della Street said.

  Mason grinned. “The story is that a watched pot never boils. Perhaps we’d better look around some more in the office.”

  Mason led the way back into the office, prowled through Ed Davenport’s desk, looked through the files, reading letters, opening drawers.

  “Are you looking for something specific?” Della Street asked.

  “I’m trying to get the people pictured in my mind,” Mason said. “Davenport evidently has a great deal of confidence in his secretary. Apparently she makes out and signs the checks. There’s a balance of one thousand, two hundred and ninety-one dollars in the bank here in Paradise. There’s some correspondence in relation to mining matters. It is interesting to note that whereas certain letters are addressed to Mrs. Edward Davenport there are answers from Mr. Davenport stating definitely what his wife will and will not do.”

  “Then—”

  “Apparently he didn’t consult her,” Mason went on. “Carbon copies of replies show that several times letters went out on the same date they were received.”

  “Perhaps he kept in touch with her by longdistance telephone.”

  “The bill for last month for the entire telephone service was only twenty-three dollars and ninety-five cents,” Mason said, “including the federal tax.”

  “And all this time,” Della Street said, “he had a fear that his wife might he planning to kill him—and then he had to go and die a natural death.”

  Mason raised his eyebrows.

  “Why do you do that?” she asked. “You don’t…. Chief, you don’t suppose that … that it wasn’t a natural death?”

  “Why not?” Mason asked.

  “But, good heavens! Why … then what are we doing here?”

  “We’re protecting Mrs. Davenport’s best interests,” Mason said, “but there are certain things which we can’t do. We can’t suppress evidence or tamper with evidence, but we really can’t tell whether it’s evidence until after we get a look at it, can we, Della? Come on, I think that pot is boiling now.”

  Mason returned to the kitchen. Very carefully he steamed open the sealed envelope, reached inside, took out the papers and unfolded them.

  Della Street’s sharp gasp sounded above the singing of the teakettle as the water continued to boil.

  “Well, there we are,” Mason said cheerfully. “Six sheets of perfectly blank paper.”

  Della Street’s domestic tendencies came to the front. With her eyes still on the blank pages she turned off the burner under the teakettle.

  “Now what in the world?” she asked, and then, after a moment, added, “Do you suppose there’s any secret writing on them?”

  Mason moved the teakettle to one side, held one of the sheets of paper over the still-glowing burner on the stove, heated it thoroughly, then tilted the sheet first one way and then the other so that the light would fall on it from every angle.

  “Of course,” he said, “there could be some secret writing which could be developed only by iodine fumes, but—well, we don’t dare to assume that there is, and yet it may be dangerous to assume that there isn’t.”

  “Why in the world would a man go to all the trouble of leaving an envelope with instructions that it should be opened in the event of his death and then have nothing in it but blank sheets of paper?”

  “That,” Mason said dryly, “may be something to which we’ll have to find an answer.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Was there a tube of mucilage there in the office, Della?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” Mason said, “we’ll seal this envelope and I think under the circumstances it may be a good idea if I am careful not to leave fingerprints.”

  Mason dried off the flap of the envelope over the warm burner of the stove, went back to the office, carefully sealed the envelope, put it back in the lockbox, dropped the lockbox into the drawer, and, by using Della Street’s nail file, again locked the drawers on the right-hand side of the secretarial desk.

  “Chief, you seem to have some idea,” Della Street said, “that …” She hesitated.

  “That things have been just a little too opportune?” Mason asked.

  “Well, yes, in a way.”

  “They have been very opportune,” Mason said. “Ed Davenport died and—”

  A woman’s voice said sharply, “What are you doing here? Who are you?”

  Mason turned.

  The tall, rather good-looking young woman who stood in the doorway abruptly whirled without waiting for an answer. Mason heard the sound of running steps, then from the living room the whirring of the dial on a telephone.

  Mason grinned at Della Street, walked across to the desk, and picked up the receiver from the telephone.

  He could hear the woman’s voice on the extension telephone saying, “Operator, get me the police at once. There’s an emergency. I’m Mabel Norge, at the Davenport house on Crestview Drive. Someone is in the house ransacking the place. Send police at once.”

  Mason dropped the receiver back into place. He heard the front door slam.

  Della Street raised her eyebrows. “Police?” she asked.

  Mason nodded.

  “How long will it take them to get here?”

  “That depends,” Mason said. “Probably not very long.”

  “Do we try to get out?”

  “Oh certainly not. We stay and talk with them.”

  Mason settled himself in the chair behind Ed Davenport’s desk, lit a cigarette.

  “Chief,” Della Street said nervously, “there’s no reason why we couldn’t get out the back way.”

  “Our rented car’s out front,” Mason said. “The young woman undoubtedly has the license number by this time. It was because of the car standing there and the lights being on that she made such a quiet entrance. She must have tiptoed softly down the passageway. Incidentally I heard her give her name over the phone. It’s Mabel Norge. She’s Davenport’s secretary.

  “Definitely, Della, we remain here, and we remain in possession. We have no choice in the matter. When you stop to think of it, we’ve left rather a broad back trail. Flight would, of course, indicate a consciousness of guilt.”

  “Nevertheless there’s something about this whole thing I don’t like,” Della Street said.

  “So far,” Mason said, “we’ve done everything that was expected of us. Now let’s try to be a little more independent.”

  “What do you mean? Do you … ?”

  They heard the sound of a siren growing louder.

  “That,” Mason said, “will be the police. That’s good service. Keep very quiet, Della, because they may be a little nervous, perhaps a little quick on the trigger.”

  They heard the front door again, the sound of voices, then heavy feet. A man with a shield on the lapel of his coat, a gun in his hand, thrust a cautious head into the room, said, “Get ’em up.”

  Mason, tilted back in the swivel chair at the desk, took the cigarette from his mouth, blew a stream of smoke into the air and said, “Good evening, Officer. Come in and sit down.”

  The officer remained in the doorway, the gun in his hand. “Who are you,” he asked, “and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m Perry Mason, an attorney,” Mason said. “Permit me to introduce my secretary, Miss Street. I am at the moment engaged in taking charge of things on behalf of the widow of Edward Davenport.”

  The girl screamed, “He’s dead? He’s dead?”

  Mason nodded.

  “Then he was murdered!” she said.

  “Tut-tut!” Mason admonished. “You’re doubtless unstrung but you shouldn’t make such wild assertions.”

  “You’re representing Mrs. Davenport?” the officer asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Got any authority?”

  “She gave me the key to the place,” Mason said, “and a letter of authorization.”

  Mason casually produced the letter, handed it to the officer.

  The officer looked at the girl. “Do you know these people, Miss Norge?”

  She shook her head.

  Mason said, “I take it you’re Mr. Davenport’s secretary, the one whose initials on the letters are M.N.”

  “I’m Mabel Norge,” she said. “I’m Mr. Davenport’s secretary, and in case he’s dead I …I have something to deliver to the officer.”

  “Indeed,” Mason said.

  “Mr. Davenport had anticipated this situation,” she said.

  “What situation?”

  “His murder.”

  “Murder!” Mason said.

  “Exactly,” she snapped. “I have something to deliver to this officer which will prove it.”

  “Go ahead and deliver it then,” Mason said.

  She walked over to the secretarial desk.

  “Here, wait a minute,” Mason interposed. “What are you doing there?”

  “Getting the thing that I want to deliver to the officer.”

  Mason smiled and shook his head. “No, no,” he said chidingly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You mustn’t touch anything belonging to the estate.”

  “You’ve been in here touching things.”

  “Why not?” Mason asked. “I represent the wife. She’s the owner of one-half the property absolutely. The other half will come to her by right of succession.”

  “Why, you… you…”

  “Take it easy,” Mason said.

  The officer holstered his gun. “Now let’s get this straight. What’s the idea anyway?”

  Mabel Norge said, “She killed him. He knew that she was going to try to and he left an envelope giving evidence that could be used against her.”

  “What do you mean, he left it?” Mason asked.

  “He gave it to me.”

  “And told you to keep it?”

  “Told me that in the event of his death he wanted me to open the letter and see that the information was delivered to the officers.”

  “Did you open it before his death?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You don’t know what’s in it then?”

  “Well … well, only what he told me.”

  “Did he tell you what was in it?”

  “He told me that—well, he said enough so that I knew he was anticipating he might die at any time.”

  “Certainly,” Mason said. “The man was suffering from high blood pressure, arteriosclerosis, and I believe there was a renal involvement. His doctors had told him he might go at any time. I think it’s only natural for a man to prepare—”

  “But it wasn’t that kind of a letter. I mean that wasn’t what he had in mind.”

  “How do you know?”

  “From what he said.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me that in the event of his death I was to open that envelope and see that the officers got the papers, but that if anyone tried to get that letter during his lifetime I was to destroy it.”

  “In other words he retained control over the letter?”

  “During his lifetime, yes.”

  “And if he had wanted you to deliver the letter to him at any time you’d have done so?”

  “Why certainly. It was his letter.”

  “Where is it?” Mason asked.

  She started to tell him, then thought better of it and said, “I’ll get it when I need it.”

  Mason yawned. “I dare say you will,” he said. “Well, Officer, let’s close up here and, under the circumstances, in view of the fact that Miss Norge says there’s a letter here which may contain something in the nature of an accusation I take it it would be well to see that no one removes anything from the premises.”

  “We’ll remove that letter,” Mabel Norge said determinedly. “I’m going to open it right now and give the contents to the officer.”

  “Oh no you’re not,” Mason said, smiling.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your employment has terminated as of the date of Mr. Davenport’s death. You were his agent, his employee, his personal representative. His death terminates your employment, subject, of course, to your right to compensation. But you have no right to touch anything here.”

  The officer said, “Now wait a minute. I don’t know law but I don’t want to have any evidence disappear.”

  “Certainly not,” Mason said. “I would suggest that you lock all the doors, and since Miss Nonge quite evidently has a key—”

  “How did you get in?” she asked.

  “I told you I have a key,” Mason said. “I have Mrs. Davenport’s key.”

  “She wouldn’t have given you a key. I know she wouldn’t.”

  Mason smiled. “In that case, Officer, Mrs. Davenport wouldn’t have given me a key, because this girl says she wouldn’t. Therefore I couldn’t have used that key to get in. Hence I’m not here. Disregard me.”

  The officer said, “If there’s a letter that he left to be opened in the event of his death, a letter that gives any clues as to how he died, we’d better get that letter and put it in the hands of the D.A.”

  “The point,” Mason said, “is that no one knows that this letter contains any accusation against any person or would give any clue. That envelope may contain a will for all anybody knows.”

  “Well, let’s have a look at it,” the officer said. “You’re representing the wife. The secretary is here. I’m representing the law. We’ll have a look at it.”

  “No one is going to open that letter until the wife says so,” Mason said.

  “Now wait a minute. You’re being hard to get along with,” the officer told him.

  “Not as long as you do things according to law. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Sidney Boom, an officer out of the sheriff’s office. This territory is unincorporated. It’s county territory.”

  “That’s fine,” Mason said. “Now do you want to do things according to law or don’t you?”

  “Certainly I want to do them according to law.”

  “All right,” Mason said. “As far as the personal property in here is concerned it’s community property and the surviving widow has a one-half interest in it and always did have. It’s hers. The other half will come to her through probate administration. Technically she has the title to it right now, but the title can’t be validated until after the estate has been through probate and the debts paid.”