Mason looked at the officer.

  “The ticket was in his things, all right, when he was taken into custody. We gave him a receipt for all of his stuff.”

  “But you didn’t give me the ticket back,” Banks protested.

  “We couldn’t,” the officer said. “The ticket has been impounded. It’s in the custody of the court. There’s a notice in your things there—case of Fremont versus Banks. Fremont claims you embezzled the money that you used in betting on the horse, and that you’re holding the ticket in trust for him.”

  “I could get the winnings on that ticket and he wouldn’t have a whisper of a claim,” Banks said indignantly.

  “All I know about it,” the officer said, “is that the ticket is impounded by order of court. You can fight it out in a civil action.”

  “But that doesn’t affect the charge of embezzlement?” Mason asked.

  “Apparently not,” the officer said. “That charge is still pending.”

  Banks said hotly, “All the old goat claims that he’s short is a little over a thousand dollars, and if he’s right, there’s plenty of money to pay off every cent of it. But he’s trying to get the winning ticket on the horse and then prosecute a charge of embezzlement also.”

  Mason said, “I don’t think I’m going to act as your attorney, young man. I’m not your attorney now. I’m going to tell you one thing. You’re out on bail. Get out of here. There’s no question that you had the winning ticket in your possession at the time you were arrested. That was a fifty-dollar ticket. It shows on the personal property receipt. Now then, you have a copy of a writ there that was served on the officers, calling on them to hold that ticket. The court is going to impound the money.

  “You have a lawsuit with Fremont as to who owns the money, and in addition to that Fremont has you arrested for embezzlement.

  “Now, you can see Fremont’s position. If you use that money to pay off the amount he’s claimed you embezzled and there’s no shortage, then he might be liable for damages for false arrest and for falsely accusing you of embezzlement—all of which depends on proof and on the state of the books.

  “If he can claim that you made a fifty-dollar bet on Dough Boy, that it was made with embezzled money, then you become the involuntary trustee for his benefit of any winnings that may have been received, so he’s still entitled to consider a shortage of over a thousand dollars as an embezzlement and at the same time claim the winnings, amounting to fourteen hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

  “That’s unjust. He can’t eat his cake and have it, too,” Banks protested.

  “Now you’re doing exactly what I told you not to do,” Mason said.

  “You’re talking. My advice is, go see your sister. Talk with her, and remember she put up five thousand dollars in cash for bail.”

  “Where did she get that money?” Banks asked.

  Mason smiled and said, “I’m not prepared to discuss the financial affairs of my client, and I am going to repeat once more to you that the best thing you can do is to keep your mouth shut until you’ve seen your sister, and see an attorney. My best guess is that you should go to see your sister now. Do you know where to find her?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “I can find her all right.”

  “Then you’d better go see her,” Mason said. “You’re out on bail. You’re free to leave. That winds up my responsibility as far as you are concerned. I have places to go and things to do. Good luck.”

  Mason turned, walked out of the room, and took the elevator down to the entrance where Della Street was parked in the car.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “The plot thickens,” Mason said. “Apparently everybody was betting on Dough Boy. There was a hot tip from somewhere.

  “It now appears the amount of the embezzlement was only a little over a thousand dollars and the winnings on Rodney Banks’ ticket would have been more than enough to have squared up everything, but Fremont claims the betting was done with funds that had been embezzled and therefore, since the money came from his till, he’s entitled to the winnings.”

  “Can he do that?” Della Street asked. “Doesn’t he have to do one or the other?”

  “Technically,” Mason said, “he’s within his rights. The money was embezzled and it remained his money. If it was put out on a profitable investment, he’s entitled to the profits.”

  “And can still prosecute for the embezzlement?”

  “Embezzlement,” Mason said, “is a crime, it doesn’t give the embezzler title to the money. If he doesn’t have title to the money, he isn’t entitled to profits on the money.”

  “But how about the money our client bet on Dough Boy?”

  “There’s a question,” Mason said. “A great deal depends on the embezzlement, how the money was embezzled and where it came from. Now, if Rodney gave his sister five hundred dollars and told her to bet it on Dough Boy, and that money was embezzled and Fremont can prove that it was embezzled from him, Fremont is entitled to all of the money that was won. But he’s got to prove a lot of things. He has to prove the embezzlement, he has to prove the identity of the money, and he probably would have to prove that the sister was an accessory or at least had guilty knowledge. It’s an unusual situation.”

  “Did Rodney act as if he knew his sister had bet on Dough Boy?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” Mason said. “Rodney Banks is a chunky, broad-shouldered young man with quick, nervous speech and mannerisms—you just can’t tell too much about the guy. He’s typical of a certain brand of instability. You frequently find it in young men who have had mothers or sisters who have tried to protect them from the responsibilities of life.”

  “In other words, you don’t like him and don’t want any part of him?”

  Mason grinned and said, “Let’s put it this way. I’m not representing him. I represented his sister for the purpose of getting him out on bail. I’ve got him out on bail.

  “And now, Miss Street, despite the early hour, since you have made a substantial winning on the horse races, we are going out to indulge in cocktails and an early dinner. We will forget dull care, crooked clients, penurious bosses, embezzlements and concentrate on rhythm, food, relaxation and enjoyment.”

  Chapter Six

  It was still early when Perry Mason escorted Della Street to the door of her apartment house, said good night, then leisurely drove back to his own apartment.

  The phone was ringing as he entered the door.

  Since only Della Street and Paul Drake had the number of that phone, the lawyer hastened across the room to answer it.

  “Hello,” he said, “what is it?”

  Paul Drake’s voice came over the wire. “Your female client is in a dither. She wants you to come to see her right away. She says it’s terribly important, and she means terribly important.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “I’m not chasing down there after office hours until I know what it’s all about. I’ve discharged all my obligations to her. Did she tell you what was bothering her?”

  “Some terrific emergency. She seemed all shaken up. Why not at least give her a ring,” Drake said. “I think something important really has happened.”

  “Probably someone stuck her up and took her money away from her,”

  Mason said. “Okay, I’ll give her a ring.”

  Mason rang the Foley Motel, asked for Nancy Banks in 14.

  The voice answering the phone said, “I’m sorry, but that number isn’t answering right at the moment. I just had a couple of calls with no answer. I’m the manager.”

  “Perhaps I can try again in a few minutes.”

  The manager’s voice said, with gentle but firm austerity, “May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  Mason hesitated a moment, then said, “If she should check in, tell her that her lawyer was calling her, will you please?”

  “Her lawyer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, why should she need—Oh, very well. Do you care to leave your name?”

  “Mason.”

  “Not Perry Mason!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Mason. I’ll skip down there and leave a note on her door. She should be in any minute. I don’t know where she is. I’ve had a couple of calls and she hasn’t answered. I dislike ringing when a person isn’t in. You know how it is. The walls are reasonably soundproof but a ringing telephone can disturb the occupants of adjoining units.”

  Mason said, “I’ll give you a ring a little later on. You can leave a note, if you will, just telling her that I’ve called, and will call again in ten or fifteen minutes.”

  The lawyer stretched out in an easy chair, lit a cigarette and was picking up the evening paper when the phone rang again.

  Mason answered it and heard Drake’s voice. “Perry, this girl is really in a state. She’s excited as all hell and she says she has to see you at once, that you should get down there, that something terrible has happened.”

  “Get down where, Paul?”

  “Down to the motel.”

  “She isn’t there,” Mason said. “The manager of the motel says she isn’t answering the phone.”

  “She’s there. That’s where she phoned from,” Drake said. “At least, that’s where she said she was phoning from. I asked her where she was and she said she simply had to see you, that she’d pay whatever it was worth if you could come down there right away, but that you must come there, she couldn’t go to you. She said it was a great emergency.”

  “Oh, heck,” Mason said, “that’s what comes of getting tied up with feminine clients who get hysterical . . . . Okay, Paul, I’ll take a run down there and if that girl isn’t there I’ll certainly make a charge that will teach her a lesson . . . . When are you going home?”

  “Lord knows,” Drake said. “I’m working on a rather difficult case. I’ve had a couple of men out and have been checking reports. What do you want to do about any future calls that come in?”

  “Simply tell whoever is calling that I can’t be reached until morning,” Mason said. “But if this Nancy Banks telephones again, tell her I’m on my way down, and tell her that it had better be really important.”

  Mason sighed, adjusted his tie, and telephoned the apartment garage to have his car ready. He took the elevator to the garage and made time to the Foley Motel.

  The vivid lights at the front of the motel blazoned, Foley Motel, and underneath, a relatively small sign, No Vacancy.

  Mason hesitated a moment over whether to stop at the manager’s office, then thought better of it and drove directly to Unit 14.

  He parked his car, knocked on the door. There was no answer, although lights were on in the unit.

  Frowning, Mason tried the door. It opened readily.

  On the floor just in front of the door was a note, “Miss Banks: Your lawyer called and said he would call back again in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  Mason closed the door behind him, looked around the unit.

  It was just as he had seen it last, a typical motel unit. A suitcase was on a stand. A feminine overnight bag was on the dressing table in front of the mirror.

  Mason glanced at his watch, frowned his annoyance, seated himself and waited.

  In the silence the lawyer became conscious of a spring-wound traveling clock on the bureau, ticking away the minutes. He checked his time with that of the traveling clock, found that the traveling clock was five minutes slow, stretched, yawned, looked at his watch again and got up to leave.

  Just as he was on the point of opening the outer door he paused to give the motel unit one more searching glance, then let his eyes come to rest on the closed door, apparently leading to the bathroom.

  Mason crossed over to the closed door, knocked gently, received no answer and opened the door.

  The body of Marvin Fremont was slumped grotesquely in the shower stall, the head over on one shoulder, the eyes staring vacantly, the jaw sagging. There was a small red stain, apparently from a bullet hole, in the front of his shirt.

  Mason hesitated a moment, whipped out his handkerchief, polished his fingerprints off the doorknob to the bathroom, backed out of the bathroom into the room, pulled the door shut behind him and was halfway across the room when the outer door opened and Nancy Banks came hurrying into the room.

  “Oh, Mr. Mason!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you came! Oh, this is such a relief! . . . Oh . . . Oh . . . “ She put her hand to her throat. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!”

  She came to the lawyer, took his hands in both of hers. Her hands were ice cold.

  Mason said, “All right, quick. What’s the story? Let’s have it.”

  She said, “I have been calling you. I wanted you—”

  “I called back and you didn’t answer,” Mason said.

  “I wasn’t here.”

  “That’s obvious,” Mason told her. “At least that’s your story. Now, you’d better tell me all of it.”

  She said, “I went to my apartment. I . . . I wanted to put that money you left with me in a safe place.”

  “What was a safe place?”

  “I wanted to hide it in my apartment, and I thought I’d give some to a friend of mine for safekeeping . . . . I didn’t want to have all of my eggs in one basket.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “let’s get it all and get it fast. What happened? Why did you call me?”

  She said, “Someone held me up.”

  “What do you mean they held you up?”

  “Just that. When I got out of my automobile in back of the apartment house, somebody pushed a gun at me and said in a low, gruff voice, ‘Stick ‘em up!’ “

  “Can you describe him?” Mason asked.

  “He was—No, I can’t.”

  “Did he have a mask on?”

  “There was a handkerchief around his forehead, held in place by his hat and stretching down over his face. There were two holes in it for his eyes and that was all. All I could see was that white handkerchief and—”

  “How was he built?” Mason asked.

  “He was . . . he was broad-shouldered, stocky. I would say, from his figure and the way he moved, he was about . . . oh, about forty, or he could have been younger.”

  “I see,” Mason said. “What happened?”

  “He had me dead to rights. The money was in my bag. He just pushed that gun at me and . . . I started to scream and then he hit me and grabbed the bag and was gone.”

  “The whole amount?” Mason asked.

  “The whole thing. All of it. Every cent of it, Mr. Mason.”

  The lawyer regarded her thoughtfully. “So you telephoned me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you phone from?”

  “My apartment.”

  “You said you were here, didn’t you? Isn’t that the message you left with Paul Drake?”

  “Yes, because I wanted you to meet me here.”

  “So you told Paul Drake you were phoning from here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notify the police?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Well,” Mason said, his eyes on her face, “that’s the thing you have to do. You’re going to have to notify the police about the holdup. Why was it so important that you get hold of me and have me come here?”

  Her eyes became round with surprise. “Why was it so important? Good heavens, Mr. Mason, a girl loses all her winnings in a holdup and you act as though it wasn’t important. It’s absolutely ruinous.”

  Mason nodded thoughtfully, said, “You’ll have to notify the police.”

  “I can’t, Mr. Mason. I simply can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, there are . . . certain reasons.”

  Mason said, “You’ve salvaged some of the money because I put up bail for your brother. You can get that back.”

  “Yes,” she said, lowering her eyes.

  “I still say we have to notify the police,” Mason insisted.

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “All right,” Mason told her, “if that’s the way you feel about it, there’s nothing to be done except grin and bear it.”

  He moved over to the door, smiled at her and said. “You have to get accustomed to these things. After all, you’re better off than you were a couple of days ago. You’ll get the bail money back and you’ll be ahead of the game.”

  “Mr. Mason, I . . . I’m disappointed in you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re taking this so . . . so matter-of-factly.”

  Mason said, “A holdup is a new experience for you. This is the first time you’ve had someone point a gun at you and take any money. The police regard it as a matter of routine, just as you would if your employer asked you to bring a pencil and a shorthand notebook and take a letter.

  “Now, I’m not the police, but I see a great deal of crime, and I take things somewhat the same way.

  “I don’t like to argue with you. I suggest that you call the police. With the description you have of the individual, there’s always the possibility that the police would recover the money.”

  “No, no. I can’t stand that. I don’t want the police.”

  “All right,” Mason told her, “under those circumstances the only thing for me to do is to go home, the only thing for you to do is to go to bed, and—”

  “But I’m afraid to stay here alone.”

  “What are you afraid of? You’ve lost your money. There’s nothing else to be afraid of, is there?”

  “No, I . . . I guess not.”

  “I can’t stay here with you,” Mason said. “You’re a big girl now, you know . . . . You said something about a friend you were going to leave the money with—a girl friend?”

  “Yes.’:

  “Why don’t you go back to your apartment and get her to spend the night with you if you’re nervous?”

  “I—That’s a good idea, Mr. Mason. I think I will. I’m glad you suggested it. I’ll pack up right now.”

  “Okay,” Mason told her.

  She came across the room to give Mason her hand. It was still ice cold, and the lawyer could feel the nervous tremor running through it.