“How many people have handled the box?” Mason asked.

  “I’ve handled it, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And when you called Baxley’s attention to the theft, he handled it?”

  “He picked it up and looked it over to see if he could find any clues, yes.”

  “And the detective, Mr. Jordan, has handled it?”

  “No, Mr. Jordan hasn’t. He got a pair of pliers and picked it up with that.”

  “So you know that Stuart Baxley’s fingerprints are on the box,” Mason said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, if you find Katherine Ellis’ fingerprints, you will discount the fact of Baxley’s fingerprints also being on the box?”

  “Well, of course, his had a right to be because he picked it up, whereas Katherine has absolutely no business in my closet.”

  “And if Katherine had been the one who was there and picked up the box and then you had found Stuart Baxley’s fingerprints on it, that would make Baxley the thief?” Mason inquired.

  She regarded him for a moment with penetrating gray eyes, then laughed and said, “You lawyers certainly do twist people up. I just wanted you to know that I’m trying to be fair, Mr. Mason. And so far I haven’t accused Katherine of anything. I’ve just told you the facts.”

  “May I ask how it happens Stuart Baxley is representing you?” Mason inquired.

  “He isn’t.”

  “He said he was.”

  “He wants to, that’s all. I’m representing myself.”

  “You’ve known him for some time, I take it?” Mason asked.

  “Some time, yes.”

  “What does ‘some time’ mean?”

  “It means some time.”

  “A year?”

  “Not that long.”

  “A month?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And you are short only a hundred dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain it’s exactly a hundred dollars?” Mason inquired again.

  “That’s right. A single crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.”

  “And the bank records will show where you made the withdrawal?”

  “Certainly they will. When I tell you something, Mr. Mason, I tell you the truth. I don’t believe in lying.”

  Again there were steps on the stairs. Della Street, followed by Levering Jordan, came down the stairs. Jordan was carrying a suitcase. Della Street was carrying an overnight bag.

  Della Street said, “I’ve picked out some things that she’ll be needing right away and I have her cosmetics, night things and enough to last her for a few days.”

  “Well, she can come and get the balance of her things at any time,” Sophia Atwood said.

  Mason said, “This is my secretary, Miss Street, Mrs. Atwood.”

  Sophia Atwood arose, walked over to Della Street, studied her closely. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Street,” she said, and held out her hand.

  Della Street put down the bag in order to take Sophia Atwood’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. “The pleasure is mine. I had expected to find you—well, rather emotionally upset.”

  “I am upset,” Mrs. Atwood said, “but I hope it’s not going to affect my judgment or my manners. You’re a very nice young woman, Miss Street. Nice appearing, nice spoken.”

  “Why, thank you!” Della Street said.

  Mrs. Atwood turned to Mason. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “you’re Katherine’s attorney.”

  Mason nodded.

  “I didn’t know Katherine knew any lawyer here.”

  “She knows me.”

  “Prior to the time you came here?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Some time.”

  Mrs. Atwood laughed. “You’re smart. Now, I’ll ask you how long is ‘some time’?”

  “Some time.”

  Sophia said dryly, “And she telephoned you immediately—just as soon as she had a chance to get at a telephone.”

  “Many people telephone me, and at all hours,” Mason said.

  “I dare say they do. Well, Mr. Mason, I can understand your position. You don’t want to talk with me if I am apt to be an adverse party in litigation where you are representing Katherine, but I do want to tell you that at no time did I ever accuse Katherine of any crime.

  “I have simply stated facts. I had a hundred dollars which I withdrew from the savings account of my bank and put the money in a hatbox on a shelf in a closet. When I unlocked the closet, the hatbox was on the floor and the money was gone.

  “I also want to tell you that any accusations which were made by Stuart Baxley or Mr. Jordan were entirely the result of their own thinking and are entirely independent actions as far as I am concerned.”

  “Stuart Baxley is not your agent?” Mason asked. “He is not representing you?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  “Thank you,” Mason said.

  She smiled. “Well, I’ve said enough to you, Mr. Mason. I’m just going to tell you that, as far as I am concerned, I had nothing to do with the events which led to Katherine’s departure. She can get her things any time she wants to. I trust that you have enough things to last her for the next few days, Miss Street?”

  “I think so.”

  “Because Katherine has a job, and I think it’s important that she keep that job. My own idea is that work is the best medicine on earth. I wanted her to find some sort of work. I may have exerted subtle pressure to get her to find a job.

  “And now I know you’re anxious to rejoin your client and get her things to her. I can imagine how poor Kit feels. You tell her that her aunt Sophia sends love and best wishes.”

  “And may I also tell her that you are convinced she had nothing to do with the theft of the money from the hatbox?”

  “You may not!” Sophia Atwood snapped. “I am not prejudging any person either for guilt or for innocence. Facts are facts, as I always say and you can’t argue with facts. But you may be quite certain that I made no accusations. I wouldn’t make any accusation until I had evidence to support it.”

  “Stuart Baxley is responsible for getting the private investigator on the job?” Mason asked.

  “I’ll give you my testimony when you get me on the witness stand, young man,” Sophia Atwood said, her eyes twinkling. “In the meantime, I have told you what you may tell Kit.

  “And now, you’ll excuse me because, after all, this has been a trying day and I am no longer a young woman.”

  She bowed, smiled, said, “This way, please,” and escorted Mason and Della Street to the door.

  “Well?” Della asked as Mason was loading the suitcase into the automobile.

  “Shrewd like a fox,” Mason said. “You can figure out what happened. She had a fortune in currency stashed away in that closet. Either someone stole it or she had reason to believe that Kit had discovered the money and felt perhaps that there was danger Kit would report it to the Bureau of Internal Revenue.

  “So what does she do? She cleans out all of the cash, goes to a bank where she has a savings account of two hundred and fifty dollars, draws out one hundred dollars so there is a record of the withdrawal, then dumps the open hatbox on the floor and starts screaming she has been robbed.”

  “Then you don’t think somebody—perhaps Stuart Baxley—discovered the money and took it all?”

  “In that event,” Mason said, “Sophia Atwood would be acting far differently from the way she is now. A woman would hardly lose every cent she had in the world without yelling for the police and trying to locate the culprit and recover at least some of the money.”

  “Even if it meant trouble with the income tax people?” Della Street asked.

  “Even if it meant lots of trouble with the income tax people,” Mason said. “She’d try to recover what she could and then argue about income tax.”

  “In other words then, Sophia is putting on an act?”

  “The evidence would so indicate,” Mason said, “provided, of course, Katherine Ellis is telling us the truth.”

  “Clients have been known to lie to us,” Della Street pointed out.

  “So they have,” Mason agreed dryly.

  They drove back to the motel, and Mason reported his conversation with Sophia Atwood to Katherine.

  Katherine listened attentively, unpacking while she was listening. Suddenly she turned to Della Street. “Did you see the plaid skirt on the hanger with the pink blouse?”

  “Did you want that?” Della Street said. “Should I have brought it?”

  “I was hoping you would. I almost telephoned you and then thought I hadn’t better. I … I wanted to wear it tomorrow but never mind, I have other clothes here. And I’d sure like to have my alligator-skin shoes. They’re my working shoes. … Never mind, I’ll get by in these black shoes I’m wearing.”

  “Remember,” Mason said, “Sophia, herself, is very cordial. She says that you may come at any time to get the rest of your things. Only I think it’s a good idea for you to have a witness present when you go. You’d better have someone accompany you.

  “You can reach me any hour of the night through the Drake Detective Agency. They’re open twenty-four hours a day.

  “Now, you forget about all this and try to get some sleep.”

  “I’ll try to sleep,” she promised. “I’ll never forget about it.”

  “Do the best you can,” Mason said, patting her shoulder gently, “and keep in touch.”

  He turned to Della Street and nodded.

  Chapter 6

  It was shortly before noon the next day when Drake’s code knock sounded on Mason’s door.

  Della Street opened the door and Drake said, “I have a couple of items to report, Perry. I thought you’d be interested in them and wanted to let you know.”

  “What are they?” Mason asked.

  “Item one,” Drake said, “Sophia Atwood was telling the truth. She withdrew one hundred dollars from the Sunset National Bank where she has a savings account. She had been depositing it at the rate of five dollars a month. Then she went there and withdrew a hundred dollars, asking for a nice crisp hundred-dollar bill.”

  Mason frowned.

  “So,” Drake said, “it would appear that Sophia was perhaps setting the stage for a theft, that she wanted it to be a theft of just a certain amount.”

  “That’s one explanation,” Mason said. “What’s the other item, Paul?”

  “Now, this may not have anything to it,” Drake said. “It may be just prejudiced opinion, but I’ve been talking with the receptionist at the Gillco Manufacturing Company.”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said.

  “It’s not always the same lady,” Drake said.

  Mason came erect in his chair. “What!”

  “That’s what the receptionist tells me,” Drake said.

  “Of course,” Drake went on, “my informant can’t be certain, but she seems to be a pretty observing individual. She says there are two women who sell pencils that they both look alike and dress alike that they wear very dark glasses, pretend to be blind—groping their way around with a cane that they come to work in taxicabs. But this girl insists that their shoes are a giveaway that one of them has a bunion at the base of the right big toe and has to have a shoe that is specially built. The other one has perfect feet which are neatly shod.

  “She has names for them. She calls one of them Mrs. Bunion-Foot and one of them Mrs. Neat-Foot.”

  “Has she ever told anyone about her observations?” Mason asked.

  “The telephone operator there at the switchboard.”

  “Did you talk with this telephone operator yourself?”

  “Gosh, no. There’s a stockholders’ meeting coming up and some stockholder is trying to stir up trouble. The phone lines are busy.”

  Mason said, “Paul, I want you to get an operative on the job down there at the Gillco Manufacturing Company and find out about this second person. We know one of them. Now, I want to find the identity of the second one.

  “Don’t, however, make the mistake of talking with the cabdrivers, because they may report it. I think we’ll find that each of these women has a regular cabdriver who takes her to work and comes and picks her up. It may be the same driver for both women.

  “What I want is to have a good operative with a car on the job and have him follow the taxicab when it takes the woman home. If there are two of them, we’ll find out where the second one lives. … What are you grinning about?”

  Drake said, “That’s already been done.”

  “When?” Mason asked.

  “As of an hour ago.”

  “Good work, Paul.”

  Drake said, “As soon as I found out about this double in the beggar business, I called the office and had an operative come down with a car. I told him to stay on the job until the blind beggar showed up and then follow her home.

  “This young woman staying with Mrs. Atwood, a niece of hers named Katherine Ellis, is she our client?”

  Mason thought a moment, then said, “Katherine Ellis—Kit, for short—is a waitress at one of the Madison Milestone restaurants, the Midtown Milestone.

  “She’s my client, but not yours. I’m picking up the tab on this job—at least for the present.”

  “Class?” Drake asked.

  “Plenty,” Della Street said.

  Drake observed, “This case may be a lot more complicated than it seems, Perry. I’d better meet your client.”

  Mason grinned. “You will, Paul—that is, if there are any future developments.”

  Drake left the office, and Mason said to Della Street, “King up Madison’s Midtown Milestone. Ask for Kit Ellis. Tell them it’s a business call and ask if she can come to the phone. If she can’t, leave word for her to call Mason’s office.”

  Della Street put through the call, made the request, said into the telephone, “I see. Thank you. Ask her to call Mr. Mason’s office, if you will, please … You can’t … I see … Thank you.”

  Della Street dropped the phone into its cradle, turned to Mason and said, “She’s on duty. Waitresses can’t take telephone calls when they’re on duty and they can’t have messages delivered.”

  Mason said, “Tell you what let’s do, Della let’s go down there for lunch and we’ll ask the headwaiter to have her assigned to our table. That will give us a chance to see what’s doing.

  “And you might ring up the Tracy outfit, Della. You know, the one who has the used-car lot. Tell him that I have a client who is going to be needing transportation that she will probably buy a car within the next thirty days, but that I’d like to have him let her have a used car for five or six days so she can have transportation without going back and forth on the bus at all hours of the day. It isn’t too safe for a woman out on the streets catching those midnight buses.”

  Della Street nodded, said, “The file number on this case is ‘thirty-two, twenty-four, thirty-two.’ ”

  “What’s that?” Mason asked.

  Della Street smiled. “I was just remarking that some people have it easier than others.”

  “Oh,” Mason said, grinning. “I get you now. Well, you may have a point there, Della.”

  “Not a point, a curve,” she said. “You want to ask Paul Drake to have lunch with us?”

  Mason hesitated a moment, then grinned and said, “Let’s not, Della. Let’s see if Drake isn’t eating at the Midtown Milestone. I think it would be nice just to happen to run into him there.”

  “Thirty-two, twenty-four, thirty-two,” Della Street said, and busied herself with the telephone. “I’m getting Mr. Tracy for you.”

  Chapter 7

  Mason said to the headwaiter, “We want lunch. Could we have one of Kit Ellis’ tables?”

  The headwaiter hesitated. “Only by waiting until one of her tables is empty, but they are full up now. … You’re Perry Mason, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Mason said.

  “I know,” the headwaiter said. “Friend of the boss. I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Mason, but we assign tables to waitresses, not waitresses to tables. In that way we keep the work of a waitress concentrated in a given territory otherwise they’d be moving all over the dining room and having to avoid each other.

  “We cater to a businessman’s luncheon. It’s a big thing with us, and a good many of the people like to leave their offices, have lunch, and then get back to the office within an hour so we try to keep things moving on an efficient basis.”

  “I know,” Mason said. “How are the Ellis tables—all crowded?”

  “They’re all taken. A man came in a few minutes ago and wanted one of her tables—the last one we had.”

  “We’ll wait,” Mason decided.

  “All right. I’ll put you in for the next vacancy in her tables, but it may be ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Mason said, “We’ll go in the bar and sit down. Let us know when you have a table.”

  “Okay, I will,” the headwaiter said.

  Mason led the way into the bar.

  “No cocktail,” Della Street said firmly, shaking her head, “or I’ll be falling asleep this afternoon with my head pillowed on my typewriter.”

  Mason nodded. “It’s just a good place to sit and wait, Della. We’ll have a sour lemonade made with carbonated water.”

  “Cheat on mine,” Della Street said, “and put some sugar in it.”

  “Sugar in both of them,” Mason said.

  They seated themselves in the bar. Mason gave the order, and they had their lemonades about half consumed when the loudspeaker said, “Mr. Mason’s table is ready.”

  Della Street looked longingly at the lemonade—then using the straw, fished out the cherry and the slice of orange.

  Mason paused to finish his drink, then escorted Della into the restaurant.

  The headwaiter ushered them over to a table.

  Kit Ellis came over to take their order. “Well, hello,” she said.

  She handed Della Street and Mason menus.

  “The scallops are particularly good,” Kit said. “I can recommend them.”

  “Scallops it is,” Mason said.