“Just ask for Lucille?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you want to fix a price on your stock?” Mason asked.

  “Not now,” Garvin said. “I want to find out exactly how much money the other side is willing to pay. This person probably won’t make any offer, but I want you to let him know that you’re in the picture and that I’m in the picture. If he thinks he’s dealing with only one person and that that person is a woman, you can’t fell what will happen.

  “Now look, Mason, I have only a minute to talk. There’s another party coming to meet me, and—Oh-oh, I’m sorry. That’s all. Take care of yourself. Good-bye.”

  The phone clicked at the other end of the line.

  Chapter 4

  Stephanie Falkner showed up on the stroke of ten for her appointment.

  Mason regarded her thoughtfully. “I’ve heard from Homer Garvin.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He called me,” Mason said, “from a pay station telephone. He was in Las Vegas when he telephoned. He wants me to act as his representative. He wants me to call on this party whom you refer to as Mr. X. He wants me to size the man up and feel him out. He doesn’t want to put any price on his stock until after I have explored the situation.”

  “I see,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Is that all right with you?” Mason asked.

  “It’s not what I had in mind, but anything Mr. Garvin wants is all right with me.”

  “Would you care to tell me who Mr. X is and where I can find him?”

  She hesitated a moment, said, “His name is George Casselman. I am to meet him at Apartment 211 at the Ambrose Apartments at eight-thirty tonight, and to save you the trouble of looking up the address, it’s 948 Christine Drive.

  “Please remember to tell Mr. Garvin for me that I will be guided by his wishes in the matter. I will keep my appointment but only for the purpose of holding the situation open.

  “Thank you very much for having been so patient with me and for seeing me, Mr. Mason, and good morning.”

  She arose, smiled, turned her back abruptly, and walked out.

  Della Street said to Perry Mason, “I’d be willing to bet that her abrupt departure was because there’s something she was afraid you were going to ask her if she waited.

  “Let me go out and talk with Gertie. Gertie gets some wild ideas at times, but she notices things while clients are waiting in the outer office and there are times when Gertie is almost psychic.”

  Della Street left to talk with the receptionist, was back in a matter of seconds with a newspaper.

  “No wonder!” she said.

  “What?”

  “Homer Garvin, Jr. returned home on an afternoon plane yesterday. He brought his bride with him. He was married in Chicago.”

  “Oh-oh,” Mason said.

  “Leave it to Gertie,” Della Street said. “She’s an incurable romanticist. She faithfully reads the society columns and all about the weddings. Would you like to look at a picture of Homer Garvin and his bride taken at the plane?”

  Mason regarded the picture thoughtfully.

  “A good-looking girl,” he said at length. “Anything about her background?”

  “She has been a publicity model at one of the Las Vegas resorts,” Della Street said. “Young Garvin met her there a couple of months ago.”

  “He works fast,” Mason said.

  “Or she does,” Della Street pointed out.

  “Well,” Mason said, “that can account for a lot of things. Ring up the Double-O Motel in Las Vegas, Della. See if you can get Homer Garvin. If you can’t, ask for Lucille and relay the message that the name Mr. Garvin wanted is that of George Casselman, that the address is 948 Christine Drive in the Ambrose Apartments, Apartment 211.”

  Della Street nodded, left the office and was back in ten minutes.

  “I couldn’t get him, Chief, but I did talk with Lucille and left the message with her.”

  “Did you get her last name or find out anything about her?”

  “From the way she answered the phone I have an idea she’s the manager of the motel. I simply asked for Lucille and the woman who had answered said that she was Lucille. I told her my name and she asked if I had a message for Mr. Garvin. So I gave her Casselman’s name and address.”

  Mason lit a cigarette and frowned thoughtfully.

  “So what do you do, if anything?” Della Street asked.

  Mason said, “Under the circumstances, I think I am free to call on Mr. Casselman this evening before Stephanie Falkner gets there. I suppose further that a wedding present is in order for Homer Garvin, Jr. You had better organize yourself into a shopping department, Della … something around fifty dollars.”

  “Will Casselman talk with you?” Della Street asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mason said, “but if he’s in, I’ll talk with him!”

  Chapter 5

  Promptly at eight o’clock Mason parked his car across the street from the Ambrose Apartments and walked over to the entrance.

  To the right of the door was a long row of push buttons. To the right of each push button was a name and an apartment number, and to the right of the card was the end of an old-fashioned speaking tube.

  Apartment 211 had the name Casselman opposite it.

  Mason pressed the call button.

  Almost immediately there was an answer. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Mason.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to see you.”

  “What about?”

  “About some stock.”

  A moment later the buzzer which released the electric catch on the front door sounded.

  Mason pushed the front door open, climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor, walked down a corridor to where a figure was standing in a lighted doorway.

  “You’re Mason?” the man asked.

  “Yes. Casselman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wanted to talk with you about some stock. I’m representing Homer Garvin. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  The man who had been silhouetted in the lighted doorway suddenly stepped back. The light from the inside illuminated sharp, thin features. The man was slender, alert, and about thirty-five years of age. He was smiling broadly.

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Mason. It means a good deal to me. Won’t you come in, please?”

  Casselman flashed a glance at a wrist watch. “May I ask how you located me here?”

  Mason said curtly, “I’m a lawyer,” as though that explained everything.

  “Oh yes, I see. The question still remains that—Good heavens! You aren’t Perry Mason?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, well! This is indeed a pleasure.”

  Casselman extended his hand. Mason shook hands. Casselman’s fingers were wiry and strong.

  “Sit down, Mr. Mason. Sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Mason said, “I haven’t much time.”

  Again Casselman looked at his watch. “I’m rather pressed for time myself, Counselor. I have another appointment. Shall we get down to business?”

  Mason nodded, sat down and took a cigarette from his case.

  “I take it you’re familiar with the outstanding stock in the corporation?”

  “That’s right.

  “I control forty-five per cent of the stock. Your client has fifteen per cent and Stephanie Falkner has forty per cent.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mason said, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke, crossing his long legs, and settling back in the chair comfortably.

  “These Nevada corporations are different from some of the others,” Casselman said. “Gambling is legalized in Nevada, and of course that makes a difference.”

  “Naturally,” Mason said.

  “Gambling attracts gamblers,” Casselman said.

  “Exactly,” Mason observed.

  “And since gambling is not legalized in other states, the activities of gamblers are quite frequently associated with illegalities.”

  “Naturally.”

  “That is something many people don’t appreciate in dealing with situations of this sort.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Let’s get down to brass tacks. What will Garvin take for his stock?”

  “What will you give?”

  “I am prepared to make one final definite offer.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll give thirty thousand dollars for that fifteen per cent of the stock.”

  “It’s worth more.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. You are entitled to yours, I am entitled to mine. It’s worth thirty thousand to me only because it would represent the controlling interest.”

  “I’ll pass the offer on to my client, but I don’t think it’s going to be satisfactory.”

  “Well, that’s as high as we’ll go and I can point out one other thing to you, Mr. Mason.”

  “What?”

  “If by any chance we should get control of the corporation, that offer will of course be withdrawn. Once we get control we’ll buy out Garvin at our own price.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mason said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think you realize how much trouble a minority stockholder can be in a corporation of this nature.”

  “Perhaps you don’t realize the type of person you’d be dealing with,” Casselman said.

  “That’s entirely possible,” Mason told him. “Perhaps the others don’t realize the type of person they’d be dealing with.”

  Casselman said, “Now, look, Mason, let’s keep this on a business basis. Let’s not get personal. You might get hurt.”

  Mason said, “I’m not a damned bit afraid of getting hurt. I don’t frighten easily. Glenn Falkner was murdered. You went out and bought up three blocks of stock because the stockholders were frightened. Garvin isn’t frightened and I’m not frightened.”

  “I don’t want any trouble, Mason,” Casselman said at length.

  “Then don’t ask for it,” Mason told him. “For your information, Garvin won’t sell you his stock so you can get control of the corporation and then buy out the Falkner stock at your own price. We’ll offer you Garvin’s holdings as a part of a unit transaction with Stephanie Falkner.”

  Casselman said suddenly, “All right. I’ll give her the same price. If you can …”

  Abruptly the telephone rang. Casselman jumped nervously, said, “Excuse me a moment.” He walked into another room, picked up the telephone, and Mason heard him say, “Hello.… You can’t.… Not now!” There was a moment’s silence, then Casselman said something in a low voice which Mason could not hear. After that he said, “Okay, give me two minutes,” and hung up without saying good-bye.

  Casselman returned to the room, plainly uneasy and impatient, and said, “Mr. Mason, I’m going to have to ask you to excuse me. I have an appointment at eight-thirty, and a very important matter has come up which I have to dispose of between now and then.”

  “Very well,” Mason said, moving toward the door. “How about giving me your telephone number?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s an unlisted number.”

  Mason stood with his hand on the knob, waiting.

  Casselman said hurriedly, “All right, it’s Belding 6-9754.”

  “Thank you,” Mason said, and moved out into the corridor. Casselman made no move to shake hands but hurriedly pulled the door closed. Mason noticed the door did not have a spring lock.

  Mason left the apartment house, then sat in his car waiting. After a few minutes he saw Homer Garvin, Sr. drive up, jump from his car and hurry to the door of the apartment house.

  Mason started to press his horn button, then something in Garvin’s manner caused him to change his mind. He sat watching, an interested spectator.

  Garvin opened the outer door of the apartment house with a key and went in.

  Three or four minutes later Garvin came back out, got in his car and had some trouble extricating himself from his parking place because of another car which had moved in ahead of him.

  Mason pressed the button on his horn twice but Garvin, wrestling with the steering wheel, seemed too preoccupied to hear Mason’s signal.

  It was just as Garvin moved out of the parking place that Stephanie Falkner drove up. She evidently saw Garvin as he drove out ahead of her car but did nothing to attract his attention. She did not see Mason but parked her car and went at once to the door of the apartment house.

  Just as she was on the point of pressing Casselman’s bell, the door opened and a rather portly woman in her late forties emerged, then obligingly paused to hold the door open for Stephanie.

  During the interval Mason had been waiting, only Homer Garvin and Stephanie Falkner had passed through the front door of the apartment house, and except for Garvin, the portly woman had been the only one to leave.

  Mason waited a minute or two longer, then started his car and slowly circled the block.

  It was quite dark. The only street illumination came from the lights at the corner. As Mason reached the front of the house again, he saw that Stephanie Falkner’s car was still parked in the place where she had left it.

  The fourth time, Mason was halfway around when he saw the figure of a woman running down the service stairs at the back of the apartment house.

  The lawyer slowed his car.

  The woman ran to the alley, emerged on the lighted street and reluctantly slowed her pace to a walk.

  Mason brought his car to a stop. “Want a ride, Miss Falkner?”

  She jumped back with a short half-scream, then caught herself.

  “Oh, you startled me!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Get in. I’ll drive you to your car. Did you get an offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirty thousand. He said it was all he could pay.”

  “Cash?”

  “Yes. How long have you been out here?”

  “Oh, for a while.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I saw Casselman.”

  “You did?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He didn’t say anything about it. Did he make you an offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “I’d prefer to have Homer Garvin tell you about that. As a lawyer I’m in a position to get information but not to give out any.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Did you accept his offer?” Mason asked, slowing his car to a crawl.

  “Certainly not. I told you I wouldn’t. I told him I’d call back and let him know.”

  “Get along all right?” Mason asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “Any threats?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then why didn’t you come out the front door?”

  She caught her breath sharply. “Where were you?”

  “Out back.”

  She said, “I—He was talking over the telephone, and … well, I wanted to hear what he was saying. I sneaked out into the kitchen. It sounded as though the conversation might go on for a long time, then all of a sudden he hung up. I was trapped. He went back to the front room and, of course, saw I wasn’t there. So I sneaked out the back door and ran down the steps. In that way he won’t know I was listening. Later on I’ll tell him I got tired waiting and went out the front door while he was talking.”

  “To whom was he talking?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know. The conversation wasn’t long enough for me to find out.”

  Mason regarded her sharply. “You had some very compelling reason for trying to listen in on that conversation?”

  She looked at him for a moment, then said, “Yes. I heard him use the name Garvin, and at first I thought it was … well, it might have been Homer Garvin calling.”

  “Was it?”

  “No. Apparently it was a woman.”

  “You don’t know who this person was?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea?”

  “It could have been Junior’s new wife. He was married in Chicago.”

  “Could you gather from his tone whether it was a business deal or perhaps something involving a romantic attachment?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you heard some of the conversation?”

  “Not enough to do any good.”

  “You could hear the tone of his voice?”

  “Yes.”

  “And couldn’t tell anything from that what the conversation was about?”

  “No.”

  Mason regarded her thoughtfully.

  “Well, here’s my car,” she said. “I’m living at the Lodestar Apartments. You can call me there after you get in touch with Mr. Garvin.”

  There was a definite note of dismissal in her voice. She jumped out of Mason’s car, slid in behind the wheel of her car, turned the ignition key. The motor throbbed to life.

  “I probably don’t sound like it,” she said, “but I’m very grateful to you.”

  The car eased away from the curb.

  Mason drove back to his office.

  “Did you see Casselman?” Della Street asked.

  Mason nodded.

  “How is he? Dangerous?”

  “If you had your back turned.”

  She said, “Homer Garvin phoned to say he’d be up here in about half an hour. He said he had just got in from Las Vegas.”

  “When did he phone, Della?”

  “Five minutes ago.”

  Mason said, “Don’t let me forget to congratulate him on his new daughter-in-law, Della.”

  Della Street laughed. “There was a certain urgency about his voice,” Della Street said. “I think perhaps he has other matters on his mind.”

  They worked on letters until there was a tap at the door of Mason’s office. Della Street opened the door. Homer Garvin who, Mason’s records showed, was fifty-one years old yet who looked no older than forty, said, “Hello, Della,” surveyed her with pin-pointed gray eyes and patted her shoulder. Then he came across to shake hands with Mason, looked at his watch and said, “We’re going to have to work fast, Perry. Have you seen Casselman?”