“When you were a senior and she was a freshman?” Mason asked.

  Olney made a little grimace. “That part of the story,” he said, “doesn’t hang together so well when you pick it up with that lawyer’s tone of polite sarcasm.”

  “Why use it then?”

  “It’s the only story that will stand investigation.”

  “And you were told there might be an investigation?”

  “I was told to get a story which couldn’t be shown false on its face. I obey orders.”

  Della Street said mischievously. “In view of our old school-day association and your fervent, undeclared passion, which you managed to conceal so successfully, you rate a kiss on the cheek and we will do a little babbling about the old days and some of the teachers.”

  “That’s fine,” Olney said. “I just wanted to drop in to talk over the ground rules with you and plan it so things would go smoothly tonight.”

  He bowed, smiled, started for the door, paused in the doorway to turn and size up Perry Mason. The smile left his face.

  “I wish I knew what this was all about,” he said.

  Mason said. “Just a moment, Olney. That story of yours, I don’t like it … Can’t you think up a better one?”

  Olney came back into the room, stared thoughtfully at the floor for a moment. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “A boat trip! Four years ago I went through the Caribbean, then down to South America … moonlight dances on deck, warm spice-scented air – Wonderful! That’s where I met you, Miss Street.”

  Della flashed Olney a smile.

  Mason looked dubious but refrained from commenting until Olney had bowed himself out of the office, then he regarded Della Street thoughtfully. “Your old friend,” he said, “is either a good actor or a rotten liar.”

  Della Street, eyes sparkling, said, “I presume that means you’ll ask Paul Drake to be sure to get the fingerprints of Judson Olney tonight?”

  “Exactly,” Mason said.

  Chapter Three

  Warren’s house at 2420 Bridamoore Street was ablaze with lights. The house was set well back from the road, and the semicircular driveway leading to the front door was wide enough to furnish ample room for parking cars.

  On the west side of the house and opening from the driveway was a wide lane leading to a three-car garage.

  Perry Mason, slowing his car, glanced at Della Street and said, “Notice the driveway is fairly well filled with parked cars, Della, yet we’re right on time. Usually guests come straggling in at about any time which suits their convenience.”

  “What significance is attached to that?” she asked.

  “It was planned that way,” Mason said. “He wanted all the other guests to be here when we arrived.”

  Della Street said, “Oh-oh! Look in the driveway to the garage by the side door.”

  “I noticed it,” Mason said, “The big catering van.”

  “But notice the sign,” she said. “Drake’s Catering Service.”

  Mason nodded. “The name is painted on heavy paper which fits into a frame. The rest of the sign is permanently painted. In that way they can change the name to suit the occasion. We’ll have to kid Paul Drake about the service.”

  “Something new for Paul,” she said, “being a caterer.”

  “Well,” Mason said, turning the car into the driveway, “it seems that we enter from the east and find ourselves a parking place on the left-hand side of the driveway. This house was evidently built with the idea of entertainment in mind.”

  “A house of headaches,” Della Street said. “It takes lots of servants to run a place of this sort and getting domestic help these days is a real headache.”

  Mason parked the car, got out and held the door open for Della Street. “Well,” he said, “in we go and try to play the part of innocent bystanders in a script which has been written by a rank amateur.”

  “You think anyone will suspect anything?” Della asked.

  Mason said, “It depends on who’s present, Della, but if this is an intimate group that has been together from time to time, and I rather fancy it is, the presence of an attorney and his attractive secretary will cause considerable comment, a great deal of speculation, and if a guilty person is present he won’t be deceived for more than ten seconds.”

  “Yes,” Della Street said, as they walked up to the front door. “I can imagine a blackmailer putting the bite on Mrs Warren and then attending a party at which a noted attorney is introduced as one of the guests. It might be a good thing at that, Chief. It might frighten him out of any plans he might have for a shakedown.”

  “It might,” Mason said dubiously, pressing the button which caused chimes to sound in the interior.

  The door was flung open by Judson Olney.

  “There you are!” he exclaimed, taking both of Della Street’s hands. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He turned to Perry Mason. “And this is …?”

  “Mr Mason,” Della said; then turning her face to Perry Mason, “My old friend, Judson Olney, Chief. I told you about him this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mason said, shaking hands. “How are you, Mr Olney?”

  Olney expressed his pleasure, then half turned toward the couple who were standing in the reception hall. “Lorna,” he said, “this is the girl I was telling you about. Mrs Warren, Della. And may I present Mr Mason – Mrs Warren, Mr Mason. And this is Horace Warren, our host. Della Street and Mr Mason.”

  Mrs Warren said, “Welcome. It’s certainly a pleasure! Judson told me all about meeting his cruising companion and said you were more beautiful than ever, and now I can well believe it. Judson, you aren’t very smart to lose track of a young woman like this.”

  Olney knocked his head with his knuckles. “Pure ivory,” he said.

  Warren regarded Mason thoughtfully. “Haven’t I seen you some place before?” he asked.

  Mason looked him in the eyes, said, “Have you?”

  Warren’s brow puckered thoughtfully. “I’ve seen you or – Wait a minute, I’ve seen a picture of you … Mason, Mason, why you’re Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

  “That’s right,” Mason acknowledged gravely.

  “Well, what do you know,” Warren exclaimed, awe and respect in his voice.

  “Perry Mason!” his wife ejaculated. “Oh-oh! Perry Mason in person! Wait until my guests hear about this! Well, this is something.”

  “Let me take your things,” Lorna Warren said to Della, “and come in and meet these people. It’s a rather small intimate group.”

  Horace Warren moved over to take Mason’s arm. “Well, well,” he said, “the great Perry Mason. This is indeed an honour, Mr Mason.”

  “Thank you,” the lawyer said dryly.

  In the big living-room area half a dozen people were chatting together, casually holding cocktail glasses. Through huge picture windows there could be seen a swimming pool illuminated by coloured globes beneath the surface and by an indirect illumination above the surface which gave the effect of soft moonlight to the wide cement apron and the grass which bordered it.

  Another eight or ten persons were standing in groups or spread out in reclining chairs around the pool.

  The sound of a dozen voices talking at once, interspersed with occasional feminine laughter, greeted the ears of Mason and Della Street as they entered the room.

  Horace Warren stepped to the microphone of a hi-fi player and tape recorder and threw a switch which turned it into a public address system.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make,” Warren said.

  From the manner in which the people looked up with smiles of amusement, Mason gathered that Warren liked to hear his voice over the public address system and quite frequently made announcements.

  “This,” Warren said, “is a romantic story, a story involving my right-hand assistant, Judson Olney, who met a beautiful girl while he was on that South American cruise a few years ago, and then lost track of her. Then, quite by accident, he found her again and with Mrs Warren’s permission has invited her here tonight.

  “He was gratified to find that this very pretty girl whom he had always visualized as one of the Hollywood stars and who had been a woman of mystery on the cruise, was working in a law office as a confidential secretary. Because Judson is going to be occupied with business matters during a part of the evening, he asked this young woman to bring an escort of her own choosing. She chose her employer, and her employer, ladies and gentlemen – hold everything now – her employer is none other than the famous attorney, the one and only – the great Perry Mason! The young woman is the beautiful Miss Della Street. And here they are! Step forward, please.”

  Warren held out his hand, and Della Street and Mason stepped forward just as someone pressed a switch on a spotlight.

  Warren still held the microphone. “Let’s give the newcomers a big hand,” he said.

  People dutifully looked around for a place to put their cocktail glasses, then broke into spattering applause. The spotlight went off.

  Warren turned to Mason and said, “I hate formal introductions where you go around from person to person and group to group. I make many introductions over a loudspeaker. Now, if you will just mingle around, people will give you their names and you can get them catalogued. But first you must have a cocktail.”

  Mason said, “You have a very remarkable voice, Mr Warren. That was a smooth, almost professional job you did in the announcement.”

  Warren’s face flushed with genuine pleasure. “Do you think so?” he said. “Thank you, very much.”

  “I’m quite certain,” Mason said, “you must have had professional coaching.”

  Warren failed to take the bait. “Come this way and have a cocktail. We have a catering service that is doing a real job.”

  Warren led the way over to a portable bar where an impassive waiter took their orders, then lifted the lid from an insulated container.

  “Look at this,” Warren said. “The cocktail glasses are cooled almost to the freezing point. What is your pleasure?”

  “Both Miss Street and I would like Scotch-on-the-rocks,” Mason said.

  The attendant took metal tongs, extracted glasses, put the glasses on a tray, put in ice cubes, poured in Scotch and gravely extended the tray.

  Della Street took a glass gingerly, apparently conscious of the fact that in touching the glass she left fingerprints.

  Mason took the other glass.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Warren said, “I have a telephone call I have to make. Just make yourselves right at home. People are friendly here and it’s all an informal group.”

  Mason said, “Could you give me a guest list?”

  “I have had one already prepared for you,” Warren said. “I thought you’d want one. One for you and one for your charming secretary.”

  Warren, somewhat surreptitiously, pressed a folded slip of paper into Mason’s hand, turned and slipped one to Della Street.

  “How’s the catering service?” Mason asked.

  “Wonderful,” Warren enthused. “Really, it’s out of this world: I hadn’t realized it would be possible to have anything of this sort … And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a couple of telephone calls to make.”

  Warren started away, turned, caught Mason’s eye, gave him a quick wink and jerked his head in a signal that Mason was to follow.

  Mason said in a low voice to Della Street, “I’ll leave you to your own resources for a little while.”

  Still carrying his glass, Mason moved over to join Warren.

  Warren said, “There’s a shower out by the swimming pool. To the right of the shower there’s a door leading to a bathroom. That door will be unlocked. Meet me there alone in about five minutes, or whenever you can make it. Pretend that you’re just exploring around. Go out and look the house over. Move around the pool. Leave your secretary free to circulate around.”

  “People will be talking to me,” Mason said, glancing at his watch. “It’s going to be a little difficult to–”

  “That’s all right. I’ll be waiting. I want to show you something.”

  Judson Olney came up to take Della Street’s arm. “My gosh,” he said, “it’s good to see you again! You shouldn’t have stepped out of my life the way you did.”

  “It was you who stepped out of my life,” Della reminded him.

  Mrs Warren, moving up, said, “Shame on you, Judson, letting a good-looking girl like that get away.”

  Olney put his arm around Della Street’s shoulders, drew her momentarily close to him, said, “She hasn’t got away – yet. Come on, we’ve got to meet people.”

  Perry Mason moved out to the swimming pool, pausing every few seconds to shake hands with people who came up to introduce themselves, trying to avoid getting involved in conversation.

  After several minutes the lawyer moved around the swimming pool, looking admiringly at the house.

  Nearly ten minutes elapsed before he had a chance to open the door to the right of the shower without making the action seem conspicuous.

  The door opened into a sumptuous bathroom with a sunken tile tub, huge mirrors.

  Horace Warren was waiting.

  “I want you to see something with your own eyes,” he said.

  Warren opened the left-hand door of the bathroom’s two doors and beckoned Mason to follow him.

  “Now this,” Warren said, “is my wife’s bedroom. We have separate bedrooms. I’m a restless sleeper and sometimes I’ll place a dozen phone calls in the course of an evening. My room is soundproof and this room is pretty well insulated.”

  “Now, just a moment,” Mason said, “I feel rather – well, I’m a little embarrassed about this. Your wife doesn’t know you’re here, that you’re showing me anything?”

  “Heavens, no! I just want you to see this with your own eyes. Just take a look.”

  Warren led the way to a huge closet, slid back the end door, reached in, took out a locked suitcase.

  “Of course,” he said, “almost any key will open one of these.”

  Warren inserted a key, snapped back the lock and the two hasps on the side which held it shut.

  “Now just take a look in here,” he said, “and …”

  Warren recoiled in surprise. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed.

  The interior of the suitcase was filled with old newspapers.

  “Now, what the hell!” Warren said.

  “That’s what you wanted me to see?” Mason said.

  “Definitely not! Up to a short time ago this suitcase had forty-seven thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and one hundred dollar bills.”

  “You counted it?” Mason asked.

  “I counted it.”

  “Do you think there’s any possibility someone could have stolen it?”

  “I don’t know what did happen to it.”

  “All right,” Mason said tersely, “here’s a way to have a showdown. Take that receptacle out to the van. Get the experts out there to dust it for fingerprints. Find whose fingerprints are on it.”

  “Mine are on it now,” Warren said.

  “Yours and probably someone else’s,” Mason said.

  “But my wife’s fingerprints will also be on it.”

  “Hers and someone else’s.”

  Warren shook his head. “I don’t want to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “She’d be apt to come here and miss the suitcase and even after I brought it back she might find that it had been fingerprinted. You said yourself that lifting fingerprints left a trace.”

  “They can oil that leather after they get done so it won’t leave a trace,” Mason said. “The prints will be on the metal fittings.”

  “No,” Warren said, “I don’t want to take a chance of her catching me at it. I’d have trouble getting it out of the house.”

  “There’s a back way out, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could use that.”

  “But suppose she should come into the bedroom, looking for the suitcase and find it’s gone? Then what?”

  “Then,” Mason said, “you could have a showdown with your wife. You could tell her what you’re doing and tell her you’re trying to protect her.”

  “Never,” Warren said emphatically, abruptly closing and locking the suitcase. He put it back in the closet and slid the door into place.

  “Unless my wife chooses to confide in me,” he said, “I don’t want to force the issue. I did want you to see the money for yourself. I guess now the blackmailer has got in his dirty work.”

  “Your wife has enough money of her own so she could make a payment of that sort?” Mason asked.

  “She’s been converting securities during the last ninety days that I know of and perhaps even before that. Yes, she’s got enough to make that payment and if she converted all of her securities she could make several such payments. I believe in financial independence for both parties to a marriage, Mr Mason. For your information, I’ve been generous with my wife and I’ve been rather successful in a business way.” He waved his hand in an inclusive gesture. “As you can see from the sort of place we live in … I wouldn’t have Lorna dream that I’d been snooping around in here or that I had confided in you … or that you – Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Mason said, “Very well,” and started following Warren toward the door of the bathroom.

  Abruptly a door opened and Lorna Warren stood on the threshold, a look of startled, incredulous surprise on her face.

  Her husband came to an abrupt halt for a moment, then said casually, almost too suavely, “I’m showing Perry Mason through the house, dear. I took the liberty of just looking in on your bedroom.”

  Warren turned to Mason and went on easily, “Now, my bedroom is on the other side here. We can reach it either through the bathroom or through the corridor. I have another bath opening off my room … Right this way, please.”

  Lorna stood to one side.

  “When you’re finished, dear,” she said, “the caterer wants to know about serving the meal. There’s a charcoal broiler in the catering van and he wants to have about twenty minutes notice.”