She turned to Virginia Trent and said, “I understand exactly how you feel. Poor child! I suppose you were afraid of me. You needn’t have been. After all, it’s not your fault.”

  Virginia Trent said, “I’m not a child. I’m adult. What’s more, I still feel there’s something back of my aunt’s conduct, that there’s some emotional upset which …”

  Cullens got to his feet. “Well, come on, everybody,” he interrupted, “we have work to do, and there’s no use taking up more of Mr. Mason’s time.”

  He shepherded them toward the exit door. Virginia Trent, once more, started to talk about psychology as she stepped out into the corridor. Ione Bedford flashed Cullens a roguish glance, then said to Virginia Trent, “And what do you know about suppressed emotions, dearie?”

  Virginia Trent drew herself up in rigid dignity. “I wasn’t discussing suppressed emotions,” she said with calm finality.

  Mason, watching Della Street hold the door, ready to close it behind the departing visitors, could have sworn that the rapid flicker of Ione Bedford’s right eyelid as she smiled a farewell at him was not accidental.

  When the door had clicked shut, Mason grinned at Della and said, “And only this noon I was talking about people being mediocrities, marching inanely through life.”

  “A combination of characters like that,” Della Street said, “should be able to scare up something.”

  “Not a mystery, I’m afraid,” Mason rejoined. “They’re all so beautifully normal. Aside from Virginia Trent, there isn’t anyone who has so much as a nerve.”

  “Where do you suppose the aunt is?” Della Street asked.

  Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Having seen her in action,” he said, “I’m inclined to agree with Cullens’ explanation. I think she’s trying an elaborate cover-up for her brother. But, just as a concession to the vagaries of a whimsical fate which has catapulted us into the situation, Della, we’re going to find out. Call up police headquarters. See if she’s been arrested or is in an emergency hospital anywhere. Check on automobile accidents and ambulance calls.”

  Chapter 3

  At approximately seven-thirty Mason was called to the telephone from the cocktail lounge of his apartment hotel. He recognized the rich, throaty voice of Mrs. Bedford, even before she gave him her name. “Have you,” she asked, “heard anything from the aunt in the case—Breel, I believe her name was?”

  “Not yet,” Mason said. “Her disappearance, however, is apparently voluntary. I’ve had my office telephone the various police stations, emergency hospitals, and check the ambulance calls.”

  “And she hasn’t been arrested for shoplifting?” Mrs. Bedford inquired, in an amused drawl.

  “If she has,” Mason told her, “the police haven’t heard of it.”

  She laughed. “Well, I think my gems are safe. I thought I’d ring up so you could reassure that poor little starved wallflower.”

  “You’ve recovered them?” Mason asked.

  “Well, not exactly recovered them, but Aussie telephoned he’s found where George Trent had pawned them. It’s a second-rate gambling joint on East Third street, known as The Golden Platter. They have a café downstairs, and a little bit of everything upstairs. Aussie said George had the stones with him, all right, and hocked them for six thousand. I told Aussie three was my limit. Aussie said he thought three thousand was all the money Trent actually got on them; that the other three thousand was an attempt at a shake-down. He said he could bring some pressure to bear on the man who ran the place, and get the stones for three thousand. I told him to go ahead. We’ll adjust the three thousand with Trent when he sobers up…. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Mason said, “Thanks. I do. Cullens hasn’t found Trent?”

  “No. He figures Trent can take care of himself. Aussie’s on his way to get the stones. I expect to hear from him within an hour.”

  “How,” Mason asked, “did you get this number?”

  She laughed, and there was something purring in the quality of her laughter, a sensual, feline something which was quite definitely calculated to rouse the male to conquest. “You forget, Mr. Mason, that you’re famous,” she said. “And,” she went on, “having forgotten that, you are apparently oblivious of the additional fact that you’re interesting. Good night, Mr. Mason,” and he heard the sound of a definite click at the other end of the line as the wire went dead.

  Mason hung up the receiver, casually and mechanically noted the time on his wrist watch, and returned to his cocktail. Thinking the matter over, he called Della Street and instructed her to telephone Virginia Trent that the gems were located and would soon be recovered. Thereafter, Mason dined in the apartment hotel, and, as a matter of preference, dined alone. Finishing his coffee and cigarette, a bellboy approached him. “Telephone, Mr. Mason,” he said.

  “Let it go,” Mason told him. “Get the number and I’ll call back.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir, but it’s Sergeant Tremont at headquarters. He says it’s important.”

  Mason ground out his cigarette, pushed back his coffee cup, laid down his napkin and a tip, and followed the boy to the telephone, where he heard Sergeant Tremont’s voice, crisp, businesslike, and coldly efficient, coming over the wire. “Mason, your office rang up all the hospitals this afternoon, looking for a Mrs. Sarah Breel. You were trying to trace ambulance calls and automobile accidents.”

  “That’s right,” Mason said, his eyes wary and watchful, but his voice jovial. “What about it, Sergeant?”

  Sergeant Tremont said, “Mrs. Breel was knocked down half an hour ago by a motorist out on St. Rupert Boulevard. She’s receiving emergency treatment at the ambulance receiving station right at present. She’s unconscious, fractured skull, broken leg and possible internal injuries…. Now then, Mason, what we’re particularly interested in, is what led you to believe she was going to be hurt.”

  Mason laughed, and tried to keep the laugh from sounding forced. “Naturally, Sergeant, I couldn’t look ahead and anticipate that she was going to be knocked down by an automobile.”

  “No?” Sergeant Tremont asked, his voice containing more than a faint note of skepticism. “Just in case you had, you couldn’t have been any more solicitous.”

  Mason said, “Forget it. I was interested in getting information, that’s all.”

  “Well, you have it now,” Sergeant Tremont told him. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I happen to know her niece,” Mason said, “a Miss Virginia Trent. I’m going to advise her.”

  “Well, we’ve tried to advise her and can’t locate her.” Sergeant Tremont told him. “There are a couple of angles on this. I think you’d better run down to headquarters and talk things over.”

  There was a hint in the officer’s voice that the invitation might become more insistent if the occasion seemed to require, so Mason said casually, “Well, that’s not a bad idea. I’d like to investigate the circumstances and see if there’s anything I can do. Who hit her, Sergeant?”

  “A man by the name of Diggers. He seems to be all broken up about it.”

  “Are you holding him?”

  “Temporarily. We’re going to let him go in a few minutes. Evidently she ran out in front of the automobile.”

  “I’m just finishing dinner,” Mason told him. “I’ll get in my car and run down.”

  “Better make it snappy,” Sergeant Tremont told him. “We want to ask you some questions about some diamonds.”

  “Diamonds?” Mason echoed.

  “Uh-huh,” Tremont said, and hung up.

  Mason had his car brought out of the garage, and, while he was waiting for it, telephoned Della Street again. “Any luck with Virginia Trent?” he asked.

  “Not a bit, Chief. I’ve been calling her at ten minute intervals. She doesn’t answer.”

  “All right, let it go,” Mason told her. “Mrs. Breel was knocked down by an automobile out on St. Rupert Boulevard. Apparently she has a fractured skull, a broken leg, and possible internal injuries. The police are trying to locate Miss Trent. Sergeant Tremont has given me what amounts to an official summons to appear at headquarters and answer questions about some diamonds. There are a couple of angles about the thing I don’t like. Ring up the Drake Detective Agency. Get Paul Drake personally on the job. Tell him to grab a cab and go down to headquarters. He’ll find my car parked somewhere in the block. It’ll be unlocked. Tell him to climb in and wait. Also, tell him to get a couple of good men and hold them in readiness.”

  Della Street said, “Okay, Chief. I’ll get busy right away. What’s all the shooting about?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason told her, “something in Sergeant Tremont’s voice which I didn’t like.”

  She chuckled and said, “I never heard anything in an officer’s voice yet that you did like, Chief.”

  “Baggage!” he charged, and hung up the receiver as the doorman brought him his car.

  Mason drove slowly to police headquarters, his eyes, narrowed to thoughtful slits, staring out from beneath level eyebrows. He realized he had neglected to obtain any address where he could communicate with Ione Bedford, and the realization was disquieting. For reasons of his own, Mason felt that it would be very much to his advantage to know just what had transpired at The Golden Platter before talking with the police.

  He parked his car near the ambulance receiving station and had walked less than twenty steps when Sergeant Tremont stepped out of the shadows to take his arm in a cordial but firm grasp. “Who is this woman, Mason?” he asked. “A client of yours?”

  “Not exactly,” Mason said.

  “A friend?”

  “Hardly that. I had lunch with her today, as it happens.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, in a department store tea room.”

  “How does it happen you’re eating in department store tea rooms?”

  Mason paused to light a cigarette. “Since it seems to be a matter of professional interest,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you that the food was excellent. Moreover, the selection was somewhat forced upon me. You’ll remember that it started raining pitchforks about noon.”

  “In which event,” Sergeant Tremont said, “you evidently didn’t invite the lady to lunch, but met her at lunch.”

  Mason grinned. “That,” he said, “is the result of having a deductive mind.”

  “It still isn’t answering my question,” Tremont said.

  “You’ve already answered it,” Mason told him.

  Tremont faced him abruptly. “How about the diamonds, Mason?”

  “What diamonds?”

  “You know what diamonds I mean.”

  Mason shook his head slowly and said, “Diamonds are a little out of my line, Sergeant. I specialize in murders and retainers. The retainers, thank Heaven, are usually cash. The murders the inevitable by-products of the hatreds and rivalries engendered by a competitive civilization. You know, Sergeant, I’ve always been fascinated by the knowledge that there’s never a period of more than forty-five days in the city without a homicide. Imagine waiting, say on the forty-fourth day, in police headquarters, knowing that within a matter of minutes someone somewhere is going to be murdered, or that there’ll be a new record hung up. It’s uncanny …”

  “It’s also an attempt on your part to spar for time and get a little information out of me,” Tremont interrupted. “It’s not going to work. I want to know about those diamonds.”

  “Diamonds?” Mason echoed.

  “Yes. Diamonds. You know, Mason, women wear them in rings and things. They’re polished gem stones which reflect the light. They’re hard. They cut glass. Sometimes they call them ice, sometimes rocks. If that description doesn’t serve to give you a rough idea of what they are, there’s a dictionary in headquarters which you can consult.”

  “Oh, the diamonds,” Mason said. “Come to think of it, I believe she did mention that she had some diamonds, or was to get some diamonds, or something of the sort—I can’t remember just what. Her brother, you know, is a dealer in stones.”

  “Yes,” Tremont told him, “we know all about her. The minute your office became so insistent trying to find out what had happened to her, we decided it might be a good plan to look her up. So many of the people you take an interest in get mixed up in murder cases sooner or later.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Mason said. “I’ll bear it in mind when I’m inclined to ask for information in the future.”

  “Don’t mention it. It’s a pleasure. You still haven’t answered the question about the diamonds.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t tell you a thing, Sergeant,” Mason said, frowning as though trying to recall something to his mind. “She mentioned her brother’s being in the diamond business. It seems to me he’s out of town, or away, or something, and she’s running the business in his absence. I’m sorry I can’t tell you just what was said.”

  “Well, we’ll come to that again later,” Sergeant Tremont said. “In the meantime, we go in through this door, Mason.” He led the way into an anteroom where a wiry individual in the early fifties jumped to his feet as the door opened, then, as he saw the expression on Sergeant Tremont’s face, sank slowly back into the chair. Sergeant Tremont said, without turning his head, “That’s Harry Diggers, the man who was driving the car. This is Perry Mason, the lawyer, Diggers.”

  Mason nodded reassuringly. Diggers came forward to shake hands. Sergeant Tremont said to a property clerk behind a grilled window, “Let me have that Breel bag.”

  The clerk passed out a voluminous black bag. The handles consisted of two imitation jade rings, some six inches in diameter. By pulling the rings apart, the contents of the bag were easily visible.

  “That looks very much like it might be hers,” Mason said. “Is that some knitting she’s working on?”

  The sergeant nodded, pulled out the start of a knitted blue sweater, a pair of knitting needles wound around with yarn, and a ball of dark blue yarn. Underneath that, he retrieved half a dozen pairs of silk stockings and said to Mason, “Notice the price marks, and the stock tags. We’ve checked back on those stockings. They weren’t sold. Someone picked ’em up off the counter.”

  “Indeed?” Mason said.

  “Would you know anything about that?” Sergeant Tremont asked. Mason shook his head. “All right, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Tremont told him. He dug deeper in the bag and pulled out some packages done up in soft, white tissue. He unwrapped these, one at a time.

  Mason stared down at the five large diamonds in antique settings. “Gosh!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know much about stones, but those look like a lot of money.”

  “They are,” Tremont said. “Any idea where they came from?”

  Mason shook ashes from the end of his cigarette, then faced the officer. “At the time I met her,” he said, “there seemed to have been a slight misunderstanding. One of the department store detectives thought she’d been shoplifting. Her niece thought she had been shopping. Since the things she had selected had never been removed from the store, I was inclined to join with the niece in insisting that the matter should be interpreted in a charitable light.”

  “Then what?” Sergeant Tremont asked.

  “Then,” Mason said, “we sat down and had lunch. Rather an enjoyable affair all around. I found her quite a character. Later on, the niece called on me. Something was said about some diamonds which had been left with Mr. George Trent. I think, Sergeant, if you’ll get hold of Miss Trent, you’ll find these diamonds will be readily identified as stones which were left with Mr. Trent in the due course of his business.”

  “Then how did they get in this handbag?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t answer that question.”

  “This other stuff,” the sergeant said, tapping the pile of silk stockings with the back of his fingers, “was stolen. Therefore, what does it make the diamonds?”

  Mason’s laugh was genial. “Applying the same reasoning, Sergeant,” he said, “what does it make the knitting?”

  “Don’t try to crack wise, Mason. The knitting is something a woman would naturally carry in her bag.”

  “Remember,” Mason pointed out, “that her brother is a gem expert. He buys and sells on commission and does original designing, repair work, and recuts and polishes gems. While he’s away, she’s in charge of the business.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Apparently,” Mason said, “he’s on a toot.”

  “Well,” Tremont said, “it’s going to be mighty fortunate for her if it turns out these diamonds are ones which were legitimately left in her possession. Just how did you enter in on it, Mason?”

  “I didn’t particularly,” the lawyer said. “I was more entered against than entering. Having invited her and her niece to have lunch with me, the niece showed up later on in the afternoon with the report that her aunt was missing and would I please try to locate her. Then some people who had some entirely different business with the niece followed her to my office and insisted on having their business conference there.”

  The sergeant nodded to the property clerk. “The shoes, Bill,” he said. The property clerk passed up a pair of gray kid shoes, with medium high heels and pointed toes. Sergeant Tremont picked up the left one and said, “Now these were her shoes, Mason. Take a look at this left one.” Mason examined the thick, reddish-brown stains which adhered to the leather of the shoe, and which had turned the sole a rusty brown. “How’d the blood get on that shoe?” the officer asked.

  Mason shook his head. “You can search me, Sergeant. I’m telling you, the last I saw of the woman was when I paid her lunch check at the department store. That must have been about one-fifteen or perhaps one-seventeen, to be exact. I had a one-thirty appointment at my office, and had to get back for it.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the blood on the shoe.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “she was in an automobile accident, wasn’t she?’ Her leg was broken.”