The waitress looked from one to the other, then quietly placed the cocktails on the table. Mrs. Warfield hesitated, reached for hers, and gulped it down, not pausing to taste it.

  Mason said, "I am sorry it has to be that way. I think I could have worked you into something out here."

  She turned toward him, blinking back indignant tears. "All right, my husband is a convict. He is in a penitentiary. I don't even know which penitentiary. He won't let me know. He wants me to get a divorce, says he is unworthy of me. He won't have any communication with me except through a friend. That's why I couldn't tell you. You can see what a fat chance I would have of getting a bond if I told that to the bonding company."

  "That's the truth?" Mason asked.

  She nodded.

  Mason exchanged glances with Paul Drake, gave his head an almost imperceptible nod. Drake promptly pulled a billfold from his pocket. "Well, Mrs. Warfield, that makes the situation entirely different. I am certain you can't be held responsible for something your husband has done, and I think your efforts to carry on are very commendable."

  She started at him, too incredulous for words.

  Drake took two hundred dollars from his wallet. "The vacancy I want you to fill hasn't developed yet, but I think it will within a week. I am putting you on a salary. Here is two weeks' wages."

  Mason said abruptly, "Say, I bet your husband was the Warfield who was sent up for kiting cheques in San Francisco."

  "I don't know what he was sent up for," she said. "He would never tell me, just a letter from him saying that he was in trouble and that he couldn't have any direct communication with me for a long while, that I would have to keep in touch with him through a friend. He gave me the address of a friend in San Francisco – a Mr. Spinney."

  Mason said, "Why, of course, that must have been the Warfield that was sent up on that cheque-kiting charge. Personally, I always felt they convicted him on a frame-up. Did he say anything about that to you?"

  "He never even mentioned what it was." She took a compact from her purse, surveyed her eyes, put powder on her nose.

  Mason reached into his brief case. "As it happens," he said, "I am doing some work on that very case. I am a lawyer, Mrs. Warfield. I wouldn't doubt if your husband was out of the penitentiary within another thirty days… if my facts are right. Tell me, is this your husband?"

  Mason whipped out a photograph of Jules Carne Homan. The photograph had originally included some of the more notable movie stars, and had borne the caption, "Producer and cast discuss new play over champagne at Hollywood night spot."

  Mason had cut out the center of the photograph so that the caption was eliminated, and all that remained was Homan's likeness smiling up at the camera.

  Mrs. Warfield said, "Oh, I am so glad you are working to help him. I always knew..." She stopped in mid-sentence.

  "What is it?" Mason asked.

  She said, "I never saw this man in my life."

  Mason studied her intently. There was no evidence of acting on her face, merely the numbed expression of one who has received a bitter disappointment. But she held the photograph in her right hand, the compact in her left for several seconds, then she passed the picture back to mason .

  "Perhaps," Mason said, "this is Spinney's picture."

  "I have never seen Mr. Spinney."

  "Your husband wrote you about him?"

  "Yes. Mervin said not to try to write direct, that I could trust Spinney with my life. I can't understand," she went on wistfully, "why Mervin won't let me know where he is. Can't a person in the penitentiary receive letters, Mr. Mason?"

  "Yes, subject to certain rules. Perhaps your husband didn't want you to know he was actually in the penitentiary."

  "No. He had this friend write me that he was in trouble, and I wrote the friend and demanded particulars, and he finally told me that Mervin had been sent to the penitentiary. I thought it was somewhere in California. I wrote him at both Folsom and San Quentin, but the letters came back."

  "Why did you think it was in California?" Mason asked.

  "Because the friend... I am sorry, but I think I should better quit talking about it."

  "Might be a good idea at that," Mason said. "It will spoil your appetite, and here comes your seafood cocktail."

  During the dinner, Mrs. Warfield tried to find out something about her duties and where she would work. Drake parried her questions. His receptionist, he explained, was getting married. She had intended to be married on the twentieth of the month, but circumstances had made it necessary for her to postpone it a few days. She wanted to work until the very last minute.

  Mason suggested that Mrs. Warfield should go to the Gateview Hotel, stay there overnight, and in the morning look for a place to live. He suggested she might find someone who would like to share expenses, and by living together, the two could get a better apartment at a lower rental. After dinner the two men drove her to the Gateview Hotel, registered her, and secured a comfortable room.

  "And how will I let you know where I am?"

  Drake said, "Better not communicate with the office, because my receptionist would probably quit right now if she thought I had someone on a salary ready to take the job. She doesn't want to quit until she has to, but she has been with me for years, and I want her to stay on as long as she can. Tell you what you do. As soon as you have found a place to live, leave a message here for me. Just write a note to 'Paul Drake', put it in an envelope and leave it with the clerk. I shall pick it up and let you know just as soon as the job is open."

  She gave him her hand. "You have been very, very kind to me, Mr. Drake."

  "Forget it," Paul said, avoiding her eyes.

  They wished her good night, and walked out to the car.

  "I feel like a heel," Drake said.

  "Doing it for her own good," Mason pointed out.

  "But how about that job?"

  "Stall her along. Pay her salary, and let her rest. The rest will do her good. She looks worn out. Tell her to go down to the beach and lie around in the sun for a while, take sort of a vacation."

  "How long are you going to keep shelling out expenses for her?"

  "Why, until we get her a job," Mason said.

  Drake's face showed his relief. "Well, that's damn white."

  Mason ignored the comment. "Do you think she was lying about that picture, Paul?"

  "No. I am darned if I do, Perry. She acted too disappointed."

  Mason said, "I wish we had had Della Street there. I am not certain but what she knew what was coming the moment I reached in my brief case."

  "You think she was lying?"

  Mason said, "Everything points to Homan. Look at the way this case is being handled. Look at the way that cafeteria suddenly decided to drop her like a hot brick. I tell you, Paul, there is influence back of this thing, and influence in this town that can make the district attorney's office jump through a hoop and then go down into a cafeteria and dictate who shall be employed, can come only from one source."

  "Hollywood?" Drake asked.

  "Hollywood."

  Drake said, "Of course, Perry, if her husband had been convicted here in California, we could run down the records and ..."

  Mason said, "Remember she has already tried San Quentin and Folsom. Don't kid yourself, Paul. Let us say that Warfield came out to the Coast. He got a job – probably in pictures. He began to draw good money. He had a chance to meet beautiful women. To get anywhere in the picture business, even in the clerical jobs, a woman has to have a personality that makes her alive and vital. You don't find any women who hang around the movie offices who are washed-out automatons going through life making motions. They are right up on their toes. Well, naturally, Warfield fell in love. He probably played around a while first, and then he found his big moment. He wanted to get married. He wanted to have his wife divorce him. He didn't dare try to divorce her because she was too much in love with him to let him go. If she had ever found out where he was, she would have joined him. He was a big shot now – and he was haunted by a past he didn't dare disclose to anyone.

  "He tried to solve the problem by pretending he had got in a jam and had gone to the pen. He told his wife not to come out to California because she couldn't see him. Moreover, to make certain she didn't try, he got her to send him every spare cent of money she could scrape up."

  "You think he was heel enough to do that?" Paul Drake asked.

  "Sure, he was," Mason said. "That is the reason he had her sending money to Spinney."

  "Well, how do we know the husband is Homan?"

  Mason said, "Spinney is an intermediary. He is someone the husband can trust. He goes to San Francisco. Naturally, he gets mail there, and if anything happens, he is supposed to communicate with the husband in Los Angeles."

  "That is reasonable."

  "All right, Spinney is communicating with Homan."

  "Darn it," Drake said. "When you look at it that way, it is mathematical. Homan has to be Warfield. Of course, there is Homan's younger brother who is living in the house with him – but he was away the day of the accident and also the day before."

  "We would better check a little more on him," Mason said. "Tell me about him."

  "His name is Horace. He is seven or eight years younger than Jules. He is an enthusiastic fisherman and golfer. Quite a playboy."

  "How does he work?"

  "How does everybody in Hollywood work?" Drake asked. "By fits and starts. Jules gets him jobs here and there as a writer. He is trying to build the brother up. Jules has a small yacht, a saddle horse, a golf club membership, and all the things that go with Hollywood prosperity. Horace works for a while on a job, then puts in his time using his brother's plaything, going fishing, playing golf, and . . ."

  "Wait a minute," Mason interrupted. "Horace wasn't in Hollywood the day of the accident?"

  "No. He was out on the yacht on a fishing trip."

  Mason said, "He might be Spinney."

  "He might at that."

  "Or Horace might be the husband, and Jules could be protecting him."

  Drake frowned. "I would never thought of that. But Jules is the one who has the big-time job. The brother is just a hanger-on. He could write her a letter and say, 'Look, babe, I am out in Hollywood, but I am not doing so good. I am getting by because my brother is standing back of me, but he is going to chuck me out on my ear if he finds out I have a wife. What say we call it off? I will send you a little dough, and you ran get back into circulation.'"

  Mason thought over Paul Drake's observation. "I can't get over the casual way she acted when I showed her Homan's picture. You are sure it is his photo, Paul?"

  "Yes. I have talked with him. It is his photo all right, and a good one."

  "We will sleep on it," Mason announced. I am seeing Stephane Claire again tonight. I told her I thought I would have good news for her. I hate to tell her it was a flop."

  "Can't you stall her off?"

  Mason said, "Not that girl. Think I shall have a go at Homan, Paul."

  "He will be hard to see at this time of night."

  "He will be just as hard to see during the daytime, won't he?" Mason asked.

  "I suppose so."

  "Where does he live?"

  "A castle out in Beverly Hills."

  "His phone is unlisted?"

  "Oh, sure."

  "But you must have had the number when you made the kick to the telephone company."

  Drake nodded, fished in his pocket, pulled out a notebook and passed it across to Mason. The lawyer copied the telephone number.

  "It is queer this man Spinney, living in a cheap San Francisco rooming house, would have the unlisted number of a movie magnate," Mason said.

  "He ain't a magnate, Perry, just a poor three-thousand-a-week wage slave ... has to pay social security 'n' everything."

  Mason grinned. "Well, I am going to talk with him."

  "You won't find out much," Drake warned. "He plays them close to his chest."

  "Unless I am badly mistaken, Paul, he is haunted by the ghost of a former life. That is going to make him jittery – and I am not going to do his nerves any good."

  Chapter 8

  STREET LIGHTS illuminated the front of the Spanish-type white stucco house. The red tile of the roof showed up almost black in the indistinct light.

  A Filipino boy in a white coat answered Mason's ring.

  "I telephoned Mr. Homan," Mason said. "I am ..."

  "Yes, Mr. Mason," the boy said. This way, please. Your hat and coat, please?"

  Mason slipped out of his coat, handed it and the hat to the boy, followed him along a corridor floored with waxed red tiles, across the huge living room, mellow with indirect lighting, to a study which opened on a patio. Homan was seated at a desk, frowning intently over a typewritten script, the pages embellished with penciled alterations. He looked up as Mason came in, held the pencil poised over the page, and said, "Sit down. Don't speak please."

  Mason stood, amused antagonism in his eyes, staring down at the figure at the desk. After a moment, he sat down in one of the deeply cushioned chairs, watching his man as a big game hunter studies his quarry.

  Drapes had been drawn back from the plate-glass windows to disclose the patio with its palms, its fountain illuminated by coloured lights, and behind that its swimming pool. The house fairly oozed prosperity, a house which had been designed not only to be lived in but to be looked at. It had been built and decorated by a showman and for showmen.

  Homan bent over the manuscript in what was either a concentration so deep that he was entirely oblivious for the moment of his caller, or in a pose designed to impress that caller with the importance of the man upon whom he was calling.

  The man at the desk said, without looking up from the script, "In just a moment I will have this one scene licked, then we shall talk."

  The very lack of expression in his voice made his concentration seem the more genuine.

  Homan was evidently a showman. A fringe of close-cropped hair grew around a bald spot on the top of his head. He had made no effort to conceal this bald spot by letting the hair grow and combing it back. A pair of large, tortoise-shell spectacles rested on his nose. The straight brows pressed against his graying temples. He kept his head slightly bowed. His eyes stared in concentration at the script. Abruptly, he snatched up a soft-leaded pencil from the desk, and swooped down upon the manuscript in a frenzied attack, scratching out words, scribbling inserts and marginal notations. There was not the slightest hesitancy. He seemed to be struggling to make his hand keep up with his thoughts. Under the rush of that attack, the lower half of the page became a veritable patchwork of penciled notations. Then he dropped the pencil as abruptly as he had picked it up, pushed back the script, and turned on Mason a pair of reddish-brown eyes.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting. Didn't think you would get here quite this soon. Had to finish with that scene while I was in the mood to take part in it. Your visit is going to throw me all out of gear. That detective was bad enough. You are going to be worse. I hate it, but I will have to do it and get it over with. All right, what do you want?"

  Mason sought to draw him out with a few preliminary remarks.

  "I didn't realize you would be working so late."

  "I work all the time, the later the better. A man does his best work when those around him are asleep." He waved a short, thick arm in a sweeping gesture which included a quarter circle of generalization. "I mean the people in the city. There's a lot of telepathy, not individual telepathy so much as group telepathy, mind beating on mind, chaining you into a convention of business humdrum. What do you want?"

  "And I have thrown you out of the mood for further work?" Mason asked.

  "Not out of the mood for work. Out of sympathy with the script. Here are characters facing a dramatic moment in their lives. You can't put anything like that across on the screen unless the characters are real. You can't tell whether they are real unless you sympathize with them, unless you open a door and walk right into their lives. That is a subjective thought, intuition, telepathy, auto-hypnotism. Call it whatever you want to. Now you are here. You are objective. I have got to talk with you objectively. You pretend you want information. Probably you are trying to lay a trap. I have got to watch myself."

  "Why?" Mason asked, seizing the opening. "To keep from committing yourself by some inadvertent statement?"

  "No. To keep from saying something you can misconstrue and throw back at me later on."

  "I am not that bad."

  "Your detective was. He threw me out of my stride for a whole half day. What do you want?"

  "You are carrying your own car insurance?"

  "Yes – if it is any of your business, which it isn't."

  "It makes some difference – this accident."

  "How?"

  "Your legal liability; whether the automobile was being used with your consent, express or implied."

  "It wasn't."

  "Nevertheless, you can appreciate the legal difference."

  "All right, it makes a legal difference. So what?"

  "And," Mason went on, "if the person who was driving that car happened to be an agent of yours ..."

  "I don't have any agents."

  "That is what the layman occasionally thinks, but if you ask a man to take your car and run down to the post office to mail a letter, he becomes your agent so far as that trip is concerned."

  "I see. Good point. Glad you told me. I shall remember that. What else?"

  Mason said, "And if you sent a man to San Francisco to do something for you in your car, he would automatically become your agent for that purpose."

  "So what?"

  "And if he had an accident while he was driving the car, you would be responsible just as though you were driving the car yourself."

  "All right, you are leading up to something. Go ahead. What is it?"

  Mason said, "I am an attorney, Mr. Homan. I am representing Stephane Claire. I am interested in unearthing any bit of evidence which would clear her of the charge of negligent homicide."

  "That is obvious."

  "Now then, you are interested in minimizing your legal liability. If someone actually stole the automobile, that is one thing. If someone was driving it with your permission, that is another and if the person who was driving it was actually your agent, that is something else. You are naturally interested in the interpretation of the evidence which will give you the least financial liability."