Mason switched out the lights in his apartment, and drove to Paul Drake’s office.

  Jerry Conway jumped up as Mason entered the room.

  “I have a feeling that I’ve walked into a trap, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I don’t know how bad it is. But … well, there’s a lot of money involved in this proxy fight, and the people on the other side are willing to do anything. They’ll stop at nothing!”

  Drake slid a check across the desk to Perry Mason. “I had Conway make out his check for the retainer,” he said.

  “Got a couple of men lined up?” Mason asked.

  Drake nodded.

  Mason picked a straight-backed chair, spun it around so that the back was facing the center of the room. He straddled the chair, propped his elbows on the back of the chair and said to Conway, “All right, start talking.”

  “There isn’t much time,” Conway said nervously. “Whatever has happened is—”

  “There’s no use running around blind,” Mason said. “You’re going to have to take time to tell me the story. Tell it to me fast. Begin at the beginning.”

  Conway said, “It started with a telephone call.”

  “Who from?” Mason asked.

  “A young woman who gave the name of Rosalind.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “I saw a young woman tonight who said she was Rosalind’s roommate. I … I’m afraid—”

  “Go on,” Mason interrupted. “Get it over with! Don’t try to make it easy on yourself. Give me the details.”

  Conway told his story. Mason leaned forward, his arms folded across the back of the chair, his chin resting on his wrists, his eyes narrow with concentration. He asked no questions, took no notes, simply listened with expressionless concentration.

  When Conway had finished, Mason said, “Where’s the gun?”

  Conway took it from his pocket.

  Mason didn’t touch the gun. “Open the cylinder,” he said.

  Conway swung open the cylinder.

  “Turn it so the light shines on it.”

  Conway turned the weapon.

  “Take out that empty shell,” Mason said.

  Conway extracted the shell.

  Mason leaned forward to smell the barrel and the shell. “All right,” he said, still keeping his hands off the gun. “Put it back. Put the gun in your pocket. Where’s the key to the room in the hotel?”

  “I have it here.”

  “Pass it over.”

  Conway handed the key to Perry Mason who inspected it for a moment, then dropped it in his pocket.

  Mason turned to Paul Drake. “I’ll want you with me, Paul.”

  “What about me?” Conway asked.

  “You stay here.”

  “What do I do with the gun?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Shouldn’t I notify the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t know what we’re up against yet. What about that woman in the room?”

  “What about her?”

  “Was she really frightened or acting?”

  “Her hand was shaking and the gun was wobbling.”

  “When she came out, all she had on were a bra and panties?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good-looking?”

  “Her figure was all there.”

  “Yet she didn’t seem embarrassed?”

  “She was frightened.”

  “There’s a difference. Was she embarrassed?”

  “I … I would say just frightened. She didn’t try to … to cover up.”

  “How old?”

  “Probably late twenties.”

  “Blond, brunette or redheaded?”

  “She had a towel wrapped around her head. All I could see was from the neck down—and I mean all.”

  “Eyes?”

  “I couldn’t see well enough to tell.”

  “Rings?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Where did she get the gun?”

  “Apparently out of the desk.”

  “And after that?”

  “She acted as though she thought I was going to assault her or something. She wanted to give me all of her money, and begged me not to hurt her.”

  “Did her voice sound like Rosalind’s voice over the telephone?”

  “No. This mud pack seemed to have hardened. Her lips couldn’t move well. You know how those mud packs act. Her talk was thick—like a person talking while asleep. Rosalind’s voice was different.

  “I’ve heard Rosalind’s voice before. I have the feeling that I’ve heard it quite a few times. It wasn’t her voice so much as the spacing of the words, the tempo.”

  “You don’t think this girl in the hotel was Rosalind?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything.”

  “Wait here until you hear from me,” Mason said. He nodded to die detective. “Let’s go, Paul.”

  Mason crossed the office, held the door open.

  “My car or yours?” Drake asked, as they waited for the elevator.

  “Mine,” Mason said. “It’s out here.”

  “You scare me to death in traffic,” Drake told him.

  Mason smiled. “No more. When John Talmage was. Traffic Editor of the Deseret News, he followed all my cases and took me to task for the way I drove. He cited a few statistics.”

  “Cure you?” Drake asked.

  “Made a Christian of me,” Mason admitted. “Watch and see.”

  “I’m skeptical but willing to be convinced,” Paul told him.

  Mason, carefully complying with all traffic regulations, drove to the Redfern Hotel and found a parking place.

  “Going to identify yourself?” Drake asked.

  Mason shook his head. “I’ll keep in the background. You’ll go to the desk, ask if there are any messages for Mr. Boswell.”

  Drake raised his eyebrows.

  “In that way,” Mason said, “we’ll find out if the clerk remembers Conway coming in and asking the same question. If he does, he’ll look at you suspiciously and start asking questions. Then you can identify yourself and we’ll start from there.”

  “And if he doesn’t remember?” Drake asked.

  “Then,” Mason said, “you talk with him long enough for him to remember your face. Then if anyone asks him to identify the person who came to the desk and inquired for messages for Boswell, he’ll be confused on the identification.”

  “Suppose there’s a Boswell registered in the hotel. Then what do we do?”

  “We first go to the room phones, say we want to speak with Gerald Boswell. Find out if he’s registered. If he isn’t, we go up to 729 and look around.”

  “For what?”

  “Perhaps we’ll find the girl under that mud pack.”

  The two men entered the Redfern Hotel and went to the house phones. Mason first asked for Gerald Boswell and was told he was in Room 729. There was no answer.

  “Go on, Paul,” Mason said, handing him the key.

  Paul Drake walked to the desk, stood there quietly.

  The clerk looked up from some bookkeeping he was doing, came over to the counter.

  “Messages for Boswell?” Drake asked.

  “What’s the first name?”

  “Gerald.”

  The clerk moved over to the pigeonholes, picked out a stack of envelopes from the one marked “B,” and started flipping them over.

  Abruptly he stopped, looked up at Paul Drake, said, “You were in here earlier, weren’t you, Mr. Boswell? Didn’t I give you an envelope?”

  Drake grinned. “Let’s put it this way: I’m looking for a recent message.”

  “I’m quite certain there isn’t any,” the clerk said. “I gave you that—Or was it you?”

  Drake said casually, “That envelope. What’s come in since?”

  “Nothing!”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look it over again and make certain.”

  The clerk looked through the file, then regarded Drake dubiously. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Boswell, but do you have any means of identification?”

  “Sure,” Drake said.

  “May I see it?”

  Drake took the key to 729 from his pocket and tossed it on the counter in front of the clerk.

  “729,” the clerk said.

  “Right,” Drake said.

  The clerk moved over to the directory of guests, looked under 729, then became apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Boswell. I was just making certain, that’s all. If any recent messages came in, they would be in the key box. There’s nothing … . You didn’t have anyone else come in this evening and ask for messages, did you?”

  “Me?” Drake asked in surprise.

  The clerk nodded.

  “Don’t be silly,” Drake told him. “I’m able to get around. I take my own messages.”

  “And I gave you a letter earlier?”

  “There was a message in a brown manila envelope,” Drake said.

  The clerk’s face showed relief. “I was afraid for a minute that I’d given it to the wrong party. Thank you very much.”

  “Not at all,” Drake said and, picking up his key, moved over to the elevator.

  Mason moved over to join him.

  The girl in the elevator was reading her paperbacked novel. The picture on the cover depicted a good-looking woman in panties and bra, engaged in casual conversation with a man in evening clothes. The title was No Smog Tomorrow.

  The elevator girl didn’t look up. As Mason and Drake entered, and as the cage moved under their added weight, the operator closed the book, holding her forefinger to mark the page.

  “Floor?” she asked.

  “Seven,” Drake said.

  She started chewing gum as though the book had been sufficiently absorbing to make her forget about the gum.

  “What’s your book?” Drake asked.

  “A novel,” she said shortly, looking up for the first time.

  “Looks spicy,” Drake said.

  “Any law against my reading what I want?”

  “None,” Drake said.

  “You can buy it yourself at the newsstand for twenty-five cents, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested,” Drake told her.

  She flashed him a quick glance.

  “But not twenty-five cents’ worth,” the detective added.

  She diverted her eyes, pouted, jerked the cage to a stop, said, “Seventh floor.”

  Mason and Paul Drake walked out and down the corridor.

  The girl held the cage at the seventh floor. The mirror on the side of the elevator shaft showed her eyes as she watched the two men walking down the corridor.

  “Go right to 729?” Drake asked Mason in a low voice. “She’s watching.”

  “Sure,” Mason said.

  “She’s interested.”

  “So much the better.”

  Mason paused before the door of 729. He knocked twice. There was no answer.

  Drake produced the key, glanced at Mason.

  The lawyer nodded. Drake inserted the key, clicked back the latch.

  The door swung back on well-oiled hinges.

  There was no one in the room, although the lights were on.

  Mason entered the room, closed the door behind him, called, “Anyone there?”

  No one answered.

  Mason walked to the partially opened door leading into the bedroom. He knocked gently.

  “Everybody decent?” he called, waited for a moment for an answer, then pushed open the door.

  Abruptly he recoiled.

  “All right, Paul, we’ve found it!”

  Drake came to stand at Mason’s side. The body of the girl was sprawled diagonally across one of the twin beds. Her left arm and the head were over the far edge of the bed, blond hair hung straight down alongside the dangling arm. The girl wore a tight-fitting, light-blue sweater, and blood from a bullet wound in the left side of the chest had turned the sweater to a purplish hue. The right arm was raised as though to ward off a blow at her face, and remained stiffly grotesque. The short, disarranged skirt disclosed neat nylon legs doubled up and crossed at the ankles.

  Mason crossed to the body, felt the wrist, and put slight pressure on the upturned right arm.

  Puzzled, he moved around to the side of the bed and touched the left arm.

  The left arm swung limply from the shoulder.

  Paul Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry, we’re in a jam. We’ve got to report this. I insist.”

  Mason, regarding the body in frowning concentration, said, “Okay, Paul, we’ll report it.”

  Drake lunged for the telephone in the room.

  “Not here! Not now!” Mason said sharply.

  “We have to,” Drake said. “Otherwise we’ll be concealing evidence and making ourselves accessories. We’ve got to turn Conway in and let him—”

  “What do you mean, we have to turn Conway in?” Mason interrupted. “Conway is my client.”

  “But he’s mixed up in this thing!”

  “How do you know he is?”

  “He admits it!”

  “The hell he does. As far as we know, there was no body in the room when he left. This isn’t the girl he left here. If it is, she dressed after he left.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Drake asked.

  “Come on,” Mason told him.

  “Look, Perry, I’ve got a license. They can take it away. They—”

  “Forget it,” Mason said. “I’m running the show. You’re acting under my instructions. I’m taking the responsibility. Come on!”

  “Where?”

  “To the nearest phone booth where we can have privacy. First, however, we give it a quick once-over.”

  “No, Perry, no. We can’t touch anything. You know that.”

  “We can look around,” Mason said. “Bathroom door partially open. No sign of baggage, no clothes anywhere. Conway said the girl was in undies and was supposed to be Rosalind’s roommate. This place doesn’t look lived in.”

  “Come on, Perry, for the love of Mike,” Drake protested. “It’s a trap. If they catch us prowling the place, we’ll be the ones in the trap. We can claim we were going to phone in a report and they’ll laugh at us, want to know what we were doing prowling the joint.”

  Mason opened a closet door. “I shouldn’t have brought you along, Paul.”

  “You can say that again,” Drake said.

  Mason regarded the empty closet.

  “Okay, Paul, let’s go to the lobby and phone. This is a trap, all right. Let’s go.”

  Drake followed the lawyer to the elevator. The elevator girl had brought the cage back to the seventh floor. She was sitting on the stool, her knees crossed, good-looking legs where they could be seen.

  She was looking at the book but seemed more interested in her pose than in the book.

  She looked up as Mason and Paul Drake entered the elevator. She closed the book, marking the place with her right forefinger. Her eyes rested on Paul Drake.

  “Down?” she asked.

  “Down,” Mason said.

  She looked Paul Drake over as she dropped the cage to the ground floor.

  Drake, engrossed in his thoughts, didn’t give her so much as a glance.

  Mason crossed the lobby to a telephone booth, dropped a dime, and dialed the unlisted number of Della Street, his confidential secretary.

  Della Street’s voice said, “Hello.”

  “You decent?” Mason asked.

  “Reasonably.”

  “Okay. Jump in your car. Go to Paul Drake’s office. You’ll find a man there. His name’s Conway. Identify yourself. Tell him I said he was to go with you. Get him out of circulation.”

  “Where?”

  Mason said, “Put him anyplace, just so it isn’t the Redfern Hotel.”

  Della Street’s voice was sharp with concentration. “Anything else?”

  “Be sure that he registers under his right name,” Mason said. “Got that?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “All right. Listen carefully. He heard a woman’s voice on the telephone. There was something in the spacing of that voice he thinks was familiar. The voice itself was disguised, but there was something in the tempo he’s heard before.

  “Now, it’s important as hell that he identify that voice. Keep after him. Make him think. Hold his nose to the grindstone. Tell him I have to have the answer.”

  “What shall I tell him about the reason for all this?” Della asked.

  “Tell him you’re following my instructions. Make him remember what it is about that voice that’s familiar.”

  “Okay. That all?”

  “That’s all. Get started. You haven’t much time. Return to the office after you get him located. Be discreet. Act fast.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At the Redfern Hotel.”

  “Can I reach you there?”

  “No. Don’t try to reach me anywhere. Get this man out of circulation, then go to the office and wait.”

  “Okay, Chief, I’m on my way.”

  Mason hung up, dropped another dime, dialed police headquarters and said, “Homicide, please.”

  A moment later, when he had Homicide on the line, he said, “This is Perry Mason, the attorney.”

  “Just a minute,” the man’s voice said. “Sgt. Holcomb’s here. I’ll put him on.”

  “Oh-oh,” Mason said.

  Sgt. Holcomb’s voice came over the line. “Yes. Mr. Mason,” he said with overdone politeness. “What can we do for you tonight?”

  “For one thing,” Mason said, “you can go to the Redfern Hotel, Room 729, and look at the body of a young woman who’s sprawled across one of the twin beds in the bedroom. I’ve been careful not to touch anything, but it’s my opinion that she’s quite dead.”

  “Where are you now?” Holcomb asked sharply.

  “In the telephone booth in the lobby of the Redfern Hotel.”

  “You’ve been up in the room?”

  “Naturally,” Mason said. “I’m not psychic. When I tell you a body’s there, it means I’ve seen it.”

  “Why didn’t you use the room phone?”

  “Didn’t want to foul up any fingerprints,” Mason said. “We came down here and used the phone in the lobby.”

  “Have you told anyone about this?”