“It depends on the circumstances.”

  “But if he hadn’t been angry, you would have immediately diagnosed his condition as a lethargic symptom of mental ataxia, would you not?”

  “I don’t think that’s a fair question.”

  “Perhaps not,” Mason said, in the manner of one dismissing a subject. “Let’s go on with your diagnosis. You found he was angry at being dragged out of the car. Therefore, you forthwith diagnosed his case as senile dementia, did you not?”

  “I did not!” Dr. Londonberry exclaimed indignantly. “I have told you what factors entered into my diagnosis. Your question is a deliberate attempt to distort my testimony.”

  “Tut, tut,” Mason said. “Don’t work yourself up, Doctor. It wouldn’t do for you to get angry—let’s see, how old are you?”

  “Fifty-six.”

  “A bit early for senile dementia to develop, is it not, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” the physician snapped.

  “Then try and retain your good temper, Doctor, and I will try and be as fair as possible. You stated there were other symptoms. The only other symptom which you noted, I believe, was an arcus senilis.”

  “Well, that was sufficient.”

  “An arcus senilis, in your opinion, denotes a mental deterioration?”

  “It is a symptom, yes.”

  “And just what is an arcus senilis, not in technical terms, but describe it.”

  “It appears as a crescent-shaped ring in the outer periphery of the cornea.”

  Mason suddenly raised his head. “Similar to the white crescent shape in the eye of His Honor, Judge Treadwell?” he asked.

  Coincident with the asking of the question, Judge Treadwell leaned across the bench to stare at the witness.

  Dr. Londonberry, startled, glanced up at the judge, then suddenly became confused. “Of course,” he said, “an arcus senilis is not in itself indicative of psychosis. It is a symptom.”

  “Symptom of what?” Judge Treadwell asked acidly.

  “A symptom of physical deterioration which, taken in connection with other symptoms, may indicate a mental deterioration.”

  “In other words,” Judge Treadwell said, “if I should be taking a ride in an automobile, and two male nurses dragged me from the car, and I showed intense anger, that, coupled with my arcus senilis, would lead you to believe I was suffering from senile dementia, would it not?”

  The witness fidgeted uneasily and said, “I hardly think that’s a fair question, Your Honor.”

  “For your information,” Judge Treadwell said, “I have had this arcus senilis for the last twenty-two years, and for your further information, I would be very much inclined to resent a highhanded interference with my liberties by any male nurses at your institution, Doctor.” He turned to Mason. “Are there any other questions, counselor?”

  “None, Your Honor.”

  Judge Treadwell leaned forward. “The court thinks this examination has gone far enough. The court doesn’t mind stating that this is merely another one of those cases in which a man, somewhat past the prime of life, is very apparently imposed upon by greedy and officious relatives, whose affection is predicated primarily on a financial consideration, and who are impatient that the object of their so-called affection is sufficiently inconsiderate to postpone shuffling the mortal coil, leaving behind, of course, a favorable will.

  “Now the court is not in the least impressed with Dr. Londonberry’s reason for not producing Alden Leeds in court. This court is getting more than a little out of patience with persons who feel that a judicial order is of no more importance than a tag for the violation of a parking ordinance. The court is going forthwith to Dr. Londonberry’s sanitarium and examine the patient. If the court feels there is any necessity for doing so, the court will retain some reputable psychiatrist to pass upon the condition of Alden Leeds. If it appears that Alden Leeds is in the possession of his mental faculties to the extent usually found in a man of his years, the court is going to take drastic action for the flagrant and deliberate disregard of the court’s order to produce the said Alden Leeds in court at this hour.

  “Gentlemen, court will take a recess until two o’clock this afternoon. We will depart forthwith for Dr. Londonberry’s sanitarium. The court will ask the bailiff to see that the sheriff’s office furnishes transportation for Dr. Londonberry and the parties in the case. The court specifically warns anyone that any attempt to communicate with the sanitarium and prepare the persons in charge for the tour of inspection which is to be made will be considered as contempt of court.”

  “But, Your Honor,” counsel shouted in protest. “This man is. . .”

  “Sit down,” Judge Treadwell said. “The court has made its order. Court is adjourned until two o’clock this afternoon.”

  The bailiff banged his gavel. Judge Treadwell marched with judicial dignity down the steps of the rostrum and through the door into chambers.

  Some thirty minutes later, Mason parked his car in front of the sanitarium. The sheriff’s car with Judge Treadwell, Freeman Leeds, Jason Carrel, Dr. Londonberry, and the attorney was waiting at the curb.

  “Very well,” Judge Treadwell said, “it appearing that the interested parties are here, we will now enter the sanitarium. Lead the way, Doctor, and please remember that we wish to drop in on the patient unannounced. I wish to see conditions as they are.”

  They entered the sanitarium.

  Dr. Londonberry, as ruffled and indignant as a wet cat, led the way down a long corridor. A nurse, in a white, starched uniform came forward. “The key to thirty-five please,” Dr. Londonberry said.

  “You keep that door locked?” Judge Treadwell asked.

  “Yes, we do,” Dr. Londonberry said. “All he has to do is press a button when he wants anything. With patients of this sort, it’s imperative to keep them quiet.”

  “Very well,” Judge Treadwell said. “We’ll see what the patient has to say for himself.”

  The nurse produced a key. Dr. Londonberry took it, fitted it to the lock in the door, flung it open, and stood to one side. “Some visitors for you, Mr. Leeds,” he said. “I think you had better come first, Miss Leeds.”

  He bowed to Phyllis, then turned back, and stiffened in surprise.

  There was no one in the room.

  For several silent seconds, the little group stood there, staring at a cheerful room containing an immaculate hospital bed with snowy white linen, a reclining chair, a white enameled bedroom table, and a dresser with a mirror. A bathroom door, standing open, disclosed a white tile floor, a porcelain washstand with a medicine cabinet and mirror on the wall. Part of a bathtub was visible just beyond the open door.

  Dr. Londonberry strode across the room, pushed open the bathroom door, looked inside, then turned swiftly on his heel, and, completely disregarding the group, pushed his way through them to stand in the corridor and summon the nurse. “Where’s the patient in thirty-five?” he asked.

  She stared at the room in surprise. “Why, he was there less than an hour ago.”

  Judge Treadwell crossed the room to stare at the window around which an ornamental, iron grille work shut off a little balcony some four feet wide.

  Dr. Londonberry said, somewhat hastily, “That’s a precaution we take with most of the rooms on the ground floor. It keeps the patient from escaping.”

  “It evidently didn’t keep this one,” Judge Treadwell said dryly.

  “I beg your pardon,” Dr. Londonberry observed, opening the window and shaking the iron grating. “The patient didn’t leave by this window. . . . Where are his clothes, nurse?”

  “In the locker room, locker thirty-five.”

  “Get them,” Dr. Londonberry said.

  Judge Treadwell observed almost tonelessly, “I take it, this patient isn’t wandering around clad in a nightgown.”

  “He was wearing pajamas, a dressing gown, and slippers,” Dr. Londonberry said.

  He opened the bottom dresser drawer. It was empty save for some towels and clean sheets. He opened the second drawer, and disclosed a neatly folded dressing gown on top of which were pajamas and slippers.

  “Good Heavens!” he said. “The man must be naked!”

  They heard the patter of running steps in the corridor. The nurse returned to stare at them in white-faced consternation. “The locker door was closed and locked,” she said. “The clothes are gone.”

  Phyllis Leeds exclaimed, “I don’t believe it! This is some trick they’ve thought up.”

  “If it’s a trick,” Judge Treadwell said, “it will prove an expensive one for the parties who perpetrated it. I’ll see that they occupy a room where they’ll be kept out of mischief for some time.”

  Dr. Londonberry said wrathfully to the nurse, “You’re responsible for this. How could it have happened?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Doctor,” she said, and her startled eyes and puzzled countenance indicated her complete mystification. “I looked in on the patient about an hour ago. About ten minutes later a man stopped me in the corridor, and said he was a visitor for Alden Leeds. I told him that orders were very strict, that Alden Leeds was to have no visitors. He said that. . . ”

  “This man stopped you in the corridor?” Dr. Londonberry interrupted. “How did he get in the corridor? Visitors are supposed to apply at the office.”

  “I don’t know, Doctor,” the nurse said. “He was here. That’s all I know. I told him it would be absolutely impossible. He said the doctor in charge had told him it would be all right.”

  “The doctor in charge,” Dr. Londonberry repeated.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Did he mention my name?”

  “No, he just said the doctor in charge. He seemed quite positive about it, so I took him to the door of thirty-five, and showed him that there was a ‘No Visitors’ sign on it. I said that the patient was psychopathic, and under no circumstances were visitors permitted without direct orders from you. Shortly after that, the patient in fifteen had a sinking spell. That’s a post-operative case, and I carried on the best I could. There was evidence of internal hemorrhage. I had my hands full until just a few moments ago when she rested easier. The last time I looked in here the patient seemed cheerful and quite relaxed.”

  “Can you describe this man who called as a visitor?” Judge Treadwell asked.

  “He was wiry,” the nurse said, “around fifty-five or sixty, I should judge, with gray eyes, and a weather-beaten face. He wore a tweed suit, and was smoking a pipe. He wore his hair rather long. It was brownish in color, faded somewhat, with streaks of gray at the temples, and. . .”

  “Ned Barkler,” Phyllis Leeds exclaimed, and then clapped her hand to her lips as though wishing to recall the words.

  Judge Treadwell turned to her. “You know him?” he asked.

  “One of Uncle’s friends answers that description,” Phyllis Leeds said.

  “One who has been co-operating with the other relatives?” Judge Treadwell asked, significantly.

  “No, Your Honor—Of course, I can’t be sure that’s the man, but the description fits.—He’s an old prospecting pal of Uncle’s.”

  “Where does he live?” Judge Treadwell asked.

  “He’s been living in the house with Uncle Alden.”

  Judge Treadwell’s face relaxed slightly. “Evidently,” he said, “the patient wasn’t quite as incompetent as you thought, Doctor.”

  He turned to Phyllis Leeds and said, “I think you’ll find that your uncle is now at home. I suggest that you go there at once—As for you, Doctor, I feel that your refusal to produce Alden Leeds in court was an act in defiance of the court’s order. You will be ordered to appear and show cause why you should not be found guilty of contempt of court.

  “I think that is all.”

  He nodded to Phyllis Leeds and said, “Simply for my own satisfaction, I’d be glad to know if you find your uncle at home. The deputy sheriff will drive you there at once.”

  Chapter 5

  Perry Mason, with Della Street at his side, drove rapidly toward the city.

  “What happened in the sanitarium?” Della asked. “Everyone came out in a hurry, and they hustled Phyllis Leeds off in the sheriff’s car.”

  Mason sketched the highlights of what had taken place.

  “What’ll happen next?” Della Street asked.

  “We’ll go to the office,” he said. “Phyllis Leeds will probably telephone us that her uncle is at home. The court will want him brought in when the habeas corpus hearing is reopened. That’ll be all there is to it.”

  “Where will that leave us?” Della asked.

  “All finished,” Mason said, “unless Leeds wants us to do something about that twenty thousand dollar check.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “No,” Mason admitted, “I think he’ll be sore we’ve done as much as we have.—And I can’t get over my hunch that John Milicant is really L. C. Conway.”

  “Has Paul Drake found out anything?”

  “I haven’t been in touch with him for a while,” Mason said. “He telephoned he had some routine stuff to report. I told him to let it wait until after the habeas corpus. I’ll step on it and get back to the office in time to hear what he has to say before we go back to court.”

  “You’re stepping on it now, Chief,” she said, glancing at the speedometer.

  Mason grinned. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Look at this.”

  “I’m looking,” she observed, “—and you missed that boulevard stop entirely.”

  “I didn’t miss it,” Mason said. “I took it in my stride.”

  “Stride is right. You. . .” She broke off as the low wail of a siren directly behind them signaled them over to the curb.

  In stolid silence, Mason sat at the wheel while the officers pulled alongside. One of them, leaving the prowl car, started to make out a ticket. The other stood with an arrogant foot on the running board and bawled, “Where’s the fire?”

  “Central and Clark,” Mason said.

  The officer seemed taken aback. “What’s burning?” he asked.

  “My office.”

  “Say, are you kidding me, or on the square?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “All I know is what I heard on the telephone. My important papers are in danger. Naturally, I want to get there.”

  “Let’s see your card, buddy.”

  Mason handed him a card. “Perry Mason, eh? Okay, let that ticket go, Jim. Let’s take this guy up to his office. If it’s a stall, we’ll see that he gets the limit. You follow me.”

  The prowl car took the lead, siren screaming. Mason fell in behind.

  “As I was observing,” he said to Della, as they flashed through an intersection where traffic was frozen into inactivity by the screaming siren of the police car, “I take ’em in my stride.”

  “You’ll get the limit for this,” she warned.

  “At any rate, we’ll get to the office,” he said.

  “And waste time explaining to a lot of cops.”

  “No,” Mason said, deftly dodging a truck, “you can’t explain to these birds. This is one thing you can’t explain.”

  “Chief, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Darned if I know,” he admitted, with a grin, “but it’s a swell ride, isn’t it, Della?”

  “Listen, Chief, you can be as goofy as you want, but count me out.”

  He risked flashing her a swift glance. “Kidding?” he asked.

  “No, I mean it.”

  “Getting chicken, Della?”

  “You can call it that if you want,” she said indignantly. “I’m going to get out.”

  “How? I can’t stop now.”

  “No, but there’ll be an opportunity. . . .Here, they’re slowing down for that traffic jam. Chief, let me out!”

  Mason slammed on the brakes. His profile was granite-hard. “Okay, baby,” he said. “Write your own ticket.”

  “I’d rather do that than take the one the cops will write,” she said, opening the door and jumping to the street just as the traffic jam ahead resolved itself, and Mason speeded up, following the siren of the police car.

  They cut speed somewhat as they turned into the main artery. The officers ceased using the siren, worked their way through a traffic signal and parked in front of a reserved zone. Mason slid his car to a stop behind them.

  “No sign of a fire here,” one of the officers said belligerently.

  “It’s up in my office, I tell you, just a small fire. My God, you didn’t think the building was afire, did you?”

  The officers exchanged glances and sized Mason up. “Okay, Jim,” the leader said, “you go up with this bird; I’ll stay here. If this thing is a stall, pinch him for reckless driving. We can take him to headquarters on that. Perry Mason, attorney-at-law, eh?—Well, brother, you’re like a lot of these wise guys. There’s a little law you don’t know.”

  Mason shrugged his shoulders. A boyish, carefree grin was on his face. “Wasn’t that a swell ride?” he asked.

  “Come on,” the officer announced, grabbing Mason’s elbow and half pushing him through the doorway and into the elevator.

  Mason lit a nonchalant cigarette while the elevator deposited him at his floor. “Okay, buddy,” the officer said, “you find the fire.”

  Mason strode down the corridor, jerked open the door to the entrance room of his office. A blast of pungent smoke met his nostrils. The girl who customarily occupied the information desk was dashing madly about with a cup of water. The stenographers were staring with startled eyes.

  “Where’s the fire?” Mason shouted at the girl with a water glass.

  “In your private office,” she said. “I think we got it in time.”

  Mason and the officer reached the private office. A wastebasket filled with charred papers was sending up wisps of smoke. A hole had been burnt in the carpet. The side of Mason’s desk was scorched.

  The girl from the switchboard, a tall, thin girl with spectacles, talked rapidly as Mason and the officer surveyed the damage. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t know what it was. You were on the telephone, and I screamed, when I saw the smoke, that the place was on fire. I don’t know how those papers got started. One of the girls must have been in your private office and dropped ashes from her cigarette. It had a pretty good start before I found it, but it’s all right now. How did you ever get here so quickly?”