A voice said: “I beg your pardon, sir, but is this Mr. Mason, the lawyer?”

  “Yes,” said Perry Mason, irritably.

  “Just a minute,” said the voice.

  Mason held the telephone, and heard a swift whisper, then the voice of Frances Celane: “Mr. Mason?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must come at once,” she said.

  “Come where, and why?” he asked. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Come out to the house,” she told him. “My uncle has just been murdered!”

  “Has just what?”

  “Has just been murdered!” she said.

  “Do they know who did it?” he asked.

  “They think they do,” she said, in a low, almost surreptitious voice. “Come at once!” and the line went dead as the receiver slipped into place on the other end of the wire.

  Perry Mason left the office without pausing to switch out the lights. The night watchman brought up the elevator and Mason pushed his way into it as soon as the door was open.

  “Been working rather late, haven’t you?” said the watchman.

  Mason smiled mechanically.

  “No rest for the wicked,” he said.

  He left the elevator, crossed the lobby of the office building, ran diagonally across the street to a hotel where there was a taxicab stand. He called the address of Norton’s residence to the taxi driver. “Keep the throttle down to the floorboards,” he said.

  “Okay, buddy,” said the driver, and slammed the door.

  Mason was slammed back in the cushions, as the car lurched forward. His face was unchanging, though his eyes were squinted in thought. Never once did he glance at the scenery which whizzed past.

  Only when the taxi swung off to the driveway which sloped down the hill, did Mason lose his air of abstraction, and begin to take an interest in the surroundings.

  The big house was illuminated, every window was a blaze of light. The grounds in front were also illuminated, and more than a dozen automobiles were parked in front of the place.

  Mason discharged the taxicab, walked to the house, and saw the bulky form of Arthur Crinston silhouetted against the lights on the porch.

  Crinston ran down the three steps to the cement. “Mason,” he said, “I’m glad you came. I want to see you before anybody else does.”

  He took the lawyer’s arm and led him across the cement driveway, over a strip of lawn, and into the shadows of a hedge.

  “Listen,” he said, “this is a serious business. We don’t know yet exactly how serious it is. I want you to promise me that you will stand by Fran. No matter what happens, see that she doesn’t get mixed into this thing.”

  “Is she going to get mixed in it?” asked Mason.

  “Not if you stand by her.”

  “Do you mean she’s implicated in any way?” Mason demanded.

  “No, no, not at all,” Crinston hastened to assure him, “but she’s a peculiar individual, and she’s got the devil’s own temper. She’s mixed up in it somehow, and I don’t know just how. Shortly before his death, Edward Norton telephoned the police station and wanted his niece arrested, or that’s what the police claim.”

  “Arrested?” exclaimed Mason.

  “Well, not exactly that,” said Crinston, “but he wanted her disciplined in some way. I can’t just get the straight of it. You see, she had his Buick sedan out driving it. According to the police, Norton telephoned in that the sedan had been stolen and wanted the police to pick up the car and put the driver in jail. He said it didn’t make any difference who was driving it.”

  “Then that must have been after I left here, and before Norton’s death,” Mason said.

  Crinston shrugged his shoulders.

  “According to the police,” he said, “it was at eleven fifteen. Personally I think it’s all a lot of hooey. The police must have made a mistake. Norton had his faults, and there were plenty of them, but he loved his niece in his own peculiar fashion. I can’t believe he wanted her arrested.”

  “Well,” said Mason, “forget that. How about the murder? Do they know who did it?”

  “Apparently,” said Crinston, “that’s all taken care of, Pete Devoe, the chauffeur, got drunk and killed him in order to get some money. He tried to make it appear that burglars had broken in from the outside, but he bungled the job.”

  “How was Norton killed?” asked Mason.

  “Devoe beat his head in with a club. It was a messy job. He hit him a frightful lick.”

  “Did they find the club?” the lawyer asked,

  “Yes,” said Crinston, “that’s where Devoe slipped up. He took the club and hid it in a closet in his room. He didn’t think the police would search the place, because he tried to make it appear burglars had broken in from the outside. You see, the police discovered the crime a lot sooner than anyone thought they would. It’s quite a story, and I’ll have to tell it to you when we’ve got more time. Don Graves actually saw the crime being committed.”

  “Give me a quick outline,” said Mason. “Spill it fast.”

  Crinston took a deep breath, then hurried into speech. “You know Norton is a night owl. He frequently keeps his office open until midnight. To-night he had an appointment with me, and I had an appointment with Municipal Judge Purley. I was late getting things cleaned up with Purley, so I persuaded Purley to drive me out here in his car, and wait for me. I only had to see Norton for a few minutes.

  “I ran in and had my conference with Norton and then came out and started away with Judge Purley. Just as we started to drive away, Norton opened the window on the upper floor and called down to ask me if I would mind taking Don Graves with me. He was sending Graves after some important papers, and wanted him to go with us to save time. You see, they were papers that I had agreed to get for Graves—some documents relating to some of our partnership business.

  “I asked Judge Purley if he had any objections, and Purley said it would be all right. So I called up to Norton to send Graves down, but Graves, anticipating it would be all right, by that time was at the door, and he ran right out and into the automobile.

  “We started up the road toward the boulevard. You know how it curves and twists around. There’s one place where you can look back and see into Norton’s study. Graves happened to be looking back. He let out a yell. He said he had seen the figure of a man standing in Norton’s study; that this man had a club, and had swung it down on Norton’s head.

  “Judge Purley ran the car to a place where he could turn around. He thought Graves might have been mistaken, but Graves insisted he couldn’t have been mistaken. It was something he’d seen plainly. He insisted he was right. So Judge Purley drove back to the house, going pretty rapidly.

  “When we got there, the three of us rushed into the house and up the stairs to the study.

  “Norton was lying across his desk with the top of his head smashed in. His pockets were turned inside out. His wallet lay empty on the floor.

  “We notified the police right away.

  “There was a window in the dining room which had been jimmied open, and there were footprints outside in the loam. The prints were of very large feet, and the police think now that Devoe probably put a large pair of shoes on over his other shoes, in order to leave those prints and fool the police. You’ll get the facts of the case when you go in.”

  Perry Mason stared thoughtfully into the half-darkness of the shadowed hedge.

  “Why,” he asked, “should Norton have accused his niece of stealing an automobile?”

  “Probably a misunderstanding,” said Crinston, “I don’t think Norton had any idea his niece was the one who had the car. He just knew the car was missing, and telephoned the police. They were working on that when they were advised of the murder. So they’re making inquiries, figuring the car business may have had something to do with it.”

  “Do they know that his niece had the car?” asked Mason.

  “Yes. She’s admitted having taken it out,” said Crinston.

  “It seems strange Norton would have wanted her arrested,” persisted Mason.

  “Well, he did,” Crinston said, “unless the police got the wrong name, and that isn’t likely, because they got the right car numbers. But Fran is a peculiar girl. You can’t tell what she will do. For heaven’s sake, talk with her, and don’t let her get mixed up in this thing.”

  “You certainly don’t think that she has anything to do with the murder?” asked Mason.

  “I don’t know,” said Crinston, then hastily added: “No, no, of course not, she couldn’t have She’s got a temper and they had quite a fight after you left. But she wouldn’t have had the physical strength to strike such a blow anyway. And if she had had an accomplice . . . Oh well, there’s no use speculating about that anyway, because it’s all foolishness. Devoe is the one that’s guilty all right. But you know how a murder is. It’s going to bring out a lot of complications. I want you to get in touch with Fran and keep her out of the complications.”

  “Very well,” said Mason, starting once more for the house. “But either you think she’s mixed up in it, or else you’re keeping something from me.”

  Crinston grabbed Mason’s arm.

  “As far as compensation is concerned,” he said, “there’s going to be a big difference now that Norton is out of the way. The partnership that Norton and I had has some assets, and then there’s quite a bit of money in the trust fund which will go to the girl without any question, as I understand it.

  “I’ve got confidence in you and I want you to step right in the saddle as attorney for everything. Act as attorney for the estate, as well as for the girl, and stand between her and too much police questioning.”

  Mason stopped still and turned to face Crinston.

  “You might just as well be frank with me,” he said. “You seem to think that the girl can’t stand too much questioning.”

  Crinston’s jaw snapped forward and his eyes met those of the attorney in a gaze that was every bit as steady as the gaze of the steely eyes which stared into his.

  “Of course, she won’t stand too much questioning,” he snapped. “Have I been talking to you all this time without giving you any idea at all of what I’m driving at?”

  “Why,” asked Mason insistently, “won’t she stand too much questioning? Do you think she’s mixed up in the murder?”

  “I’m just telling you,” said Crinston obstinately, “that she won’t stand too much questioning. She hasn’t got the temperament for it, in the first place, and she’s a spitfire when she loses her temper. It isn’t the murder, it’s the incidental things that may come out in connection with the investigation. Now you get to her and keep the police from asking her questions.”

  Mason said: “All right, I just didn’t want to misunderstand you, that’s all. I wanted to know if you felt there was danger of her getting into trouble.”

  “Of course there is!” Crinston snapped.

  “You mean about her private affairs?” asked Mason.

  “I mean about everything,” Crinston said. “Come on. Let’s get in the house.”

  An officer stood at the front porch and questioned Mason.

  “He’s all right,” said Crinston. “He’s my attorney, the attorney for the estate, and also the personal attorney for Frances Celane.”

  “All right,” said the officer, “you folks that live here can go in and out, but you understand that you’re not to touch anything, or interfere with the evidence at all.”

  “Of course,” said Crinston, and pushed on ahead of him into the house.

  Chapter 6

  Frances Celane wore a short sport outfit, with a blue and gold sweater which set off to advantage the spun-gold effect of her silken hair.

  She sat in her bedroom on an overstuffed chair, with her knees crossed, her dark eyes staring at the face of her lawyer. There was that about her which indicated she was warily watchful. She seemed to be listening, waiting for something to happen.

  All about them the big house echoed with sounds; creaked with a suggestion of packed occupancy. Feet were constantly pounding the boards of floors, hallways and stairs in an endless procession. Doors made noise as they opened and shut. The drone of voices sounded as a distant rumble.

  Perry Mason stared down at Fran Celane. “Go ahead,” he said, “and tell me exactly what happened.”

  She spoke in a voice that was a low monotone, expressionless and thoughtful, as though she might be reciting a part that had been learned by rote.

  “I don’t know very much about it. I had a fight with Uncle Edward after you left. He was impossible. He was trying to make a chattel of me and break my spirit. I told him that that wasn’t what father wanted, and that he was being false to his trust.”

  “What did you mean by being false to his trust?” asked Mason.

  “I meant that Father had created that trust only because he wanted to see that the money didn’t go to my head too much, and make me too wild. He didn’t intend that Uncle Edward should grind me down so I became just an automaton.”

  “All right,” said Mason. “Did anyone know of the quarrel?”

  “I guess so,” she said dispiritedly. “Don Graves knew about it. And I think some of the other servants heard it. I got mad.”

  “What do you do when you get mad?” he asked.

  “Everything,” she said.

  “Did you raise your voice?” he inquired.

  “As high as I could.”

  “Did you do anything unladylike? That is, did you curse?”

  She said, still in the same toneless voice: “Of course I cursed. I was angry, I tell you.”

  “All right,” he said, “then what happened?”

  “Then,” she said, “I came downstairs and decided that I would run away and leave Edward Norton and his money and everything. I just wanted to get away.”

  “That was when you took the car?” asked Mason.

  “No,” she said, “I’m coming to that. I got things packed up as though I was going away, and then decided not to do it. I commenced to cool off a little bit. I’ve got a bad temper, but after I get over it, I can realize when I’ve made a mistake. So I knew that I’d make a mistake if I ran away. But I did want to get some air. I didn’t want to go out and walk. I wanted to drive a car. I wanted to drive a car fast.”

  Perry Mason made a dry comment: “Yes, I can understand how you could keep your mind off your troubles by driving fast.”

  “Well,” she said, “you have to do something to get your mind off your troubles.”

  “All right,” he told her, “go on. What happened?”

  “Well,” she said, “I went to the garage. My Packard was in behind the Buick and I was going to have to move the Buick anyway, so I moved the Buick, and didn’t see any reason why I should go back for my Packard.”

  “The Buick was your uncle’s machine?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “He didn’t allow you to use it?”

  “He’s never forbidden me to use it,” she said, “but I’ve never used it much. He babies it along a lot, keeps records of the mileage and the oil and gas, and all of that, and has it greased every so many miles, and the oil changed every so often. I don’t bother with my Packard that way. I run it until something gets to sounding funny, and then I have it repaired.”

  “So you took the Buick without your uncle’s consent?”

  “Yes, if you want to put it that way.”

  “And where did you drive it?”

  “I don’t know. I just drove it around, taking curves as fast as I could take them.”

  “That was pretty fast?” he asked.

  “Of course that was pretty fast,” she told him.

  “How long were you gone?”

  “I don’t know. I came back to the house a little while before the police arrived here. I must have returned ten or fifteen minutes after the murder.”

  “And while you were gone your uncle discovered the loss of the car—that is, he discovered that the car was missing. Is that right?”

  “I think that Devoe must have told him,” she said.

  “How did Devoe know?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he heard me drive away, and went out to the garage to see what car I’d taken. I never did like Devoe. He’s one of those big, cumbersome fellows who can’t think a thought of his own, but goes through life making motions.”

  “Never mind that,” he told her, “what makes you think that Devoe told your uncle?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It was the time of uncle’s telephone call, I guess, and then I always had him figured for a snitcher.”

  “What time was the telephone call?”

  “Uncle called the police to report the car theft at about a quarter past eleven. I think the police records show that it was exactly eleven fourteen.”

  “When did you leave with the car?” he asked.

  “About ten forty-five, I think it was,” she said.

  “Then you’d had the car for half an hour before your uncle reported the theft?”

  “Yes, about that long I guess.”

  “And when did you return?”

  “Somewhere around quarter past twelve. I was out about an hour and a half.”

  “What time did the police arrive here?”

  “About an hour and a half ago.”

  “No, I mean how long before you returned the car.”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes, I guess.”

  “All right,” he said, “what did your uncle tell the police?”

  “All I know,” she said, “is what they told me. One of the detectives talked with me and asked me if I knew any reason why my uncle should have reported the car as stolen.”

  “All right,” he said, “what did your uncle tell them?”

  “Well,” she said, “according to what this detective told me, my uncle telephoned the police and said that it was Edward Norton talking, and that he had a criminal matter to report. Then there was a delay. I think he was cut off or something, and the police officer, I guess they call him a desk sergeant, held the telephone for a minute until Uncle Edward got another connection, and said that he wanted to report a crime—the theft of an automobile. And he described it, a Buick sedan, 6754093, with license number 12M1834.”