“I knew it wasn’t true.”

  “How?”

  “Well, about a week ago, Bob was in an automobile accident. No one would have thought anything of it if it hadn’t been for the way he started making glib explanations. When you get to know Bob, he’s like an open book. If he’s going to lie, he’ll rehearse it so carefully that the pieces all fit together so smoothly that—well, it’s just too good to be true. It’s like a gilded lily or a painted rose.”

  “So he lied about the automobile accident?”

  “Yes … when I asked him about it.”

  “And you started checking up on him?”

  She flushed slightly, and said, “When Peavis came in and asked to have that stock transferred on the books of the corporation, I began to do a lot of thinking. I realized suddenly that if someone controlled that five shares of stock and then could get Carla’s block of stock, he’d have complete control of the corporation. I suppose it was very foolish of us, but we never thought of anything like that because it was all a family affair. I’d even forgotten about those five shares of stock, because we just went ahead with the business and did what we wanted. We never do have a directors’ meeting, and there hasn’t been a stockholders’ meeting for three years. Well, anyway, that five shares of stock represents the balance of power.”

  “I presume,” Mason said, “you’re leading up to telling me that your brother-in-law has managed to get control of the stock your sister held.”

  “That’s exactly it, only it’s worse than that. Bob evidently has been plunging pretty heavily. Carla has unlimited confidence in him. She gave him a complete power of attorney, and endorsed all of her securities in blank when she got sick. The doctor said she wasn’t to be bothered with business affairs. I always did think that Bob had a finger in that pie somewhere, and got the doctor to say that. It would have been rather easy to do, telling the doctor that Carla worried a lot about business.”

  Mason nodded. “Any idea where the stock is?” he asked.

  She said, “It’s apparently in the hands of a man by the name of Lynk who is one of the owners of the Golden Horn. The girl with whom my brother-in-law was riding at the time of the accident is a glamour girl who acts as decoy for—She’s supposed to be here. She’s the one I telephoned about. I’m expecting her any minute.”

  Mason said, “She isn’t coming.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone sent her a box of poisoned candy. She rang me up about eleven-thirty, and could hardly talk. She apparently collapsed while she was talking over the telephone.”

  “Sent her poisoned candy!” Mildreth Faulkner exclaimed.

  Mason nodded.

  “But who on earth could have done that?”

  Mason said, “There was a card on the candy box. It said, ‘These will make you feel better,’ and was signed simply with the initials ‘M.F.’ Do you know anything about that?”

  She looked at him, her eyes getting round. “Why, Mr. Mason—That card—Why, I sent it!”

  “With the candy?” Mason asked.

  “Good Heavens, no! Understand, Mr. Mason, I started doing a little detective work. That automobile accident was my clue. I realized after Peavis called on me what an awful fix I’d be in if Bob had done something with that stock. I knew Carla had endorsed it and given him a power of attorney.”

  “But I thought it was Lynk who had the stock.”

  “I think Peavis either put him up to it, or Lynk is in touch with Peavis.”

  “I see. Tell me about that card.”

  “Well, as soon as Bob started talking about the accident with all those glib explanations, I realized at once that if there was anything wrong, that automobile accident would have something to do with it. I knew that there was something about that accident he didn’t want me to find out. So I investigated. I could do that very easily because the other party had reported it to the Traffic Department. It seems that at the time of the accident, Bob had just left the Golden Horn and had a man named Sindler Coll, who I think is a gambler, and Esther Dilmeyer in the car with him.

  “I don’t think Bob would deliberately surrender the stock in order to get money to gamble, but I think they’d persuaded him his credit was good, and he’d plunged pretty deeply and had some bad luck. They’d given him something that was supposed to be a sure thing, and he wanted to collect a lot of winnings before he had to pay out his losses.”

  “All right, what about the card?”

  She laughed. “I do seem to be getting all involved in explanations, don’t I? Well, anyway, I went to the Golden Horn and managed to get acquainted with Esther Dilmeyer. She was feeling pretty low tonight. I gathered that she and Sindler Coll had been—well, pretty sweet on each other, and apparently he’d …”

  Mason said, “All right. How about the card?”

  She said, “I sent her some orchids.”

  “When?”

  “When I left. She was feeling blue, and I told her I was in the flower business.”

  “She told you about the stock?” Mason asked.

  “Not about the stock, but generally what was going on.”

  “Would Peavis surrender that stock if you threatened to sue?”

  “Not Peavis,” she said. “When he once gets his hands on anything, he hangs on until the last ditch. We might get the stock back, but we’d have five years of litigation doing it—and we might as well sell him control of the company as do that. But tell me, Mr. Mason, how did it happen that you thought my card was in the candy? That card was on the orchids.”

  Mason said, “Someone got it from the orchids and put it in the candy. How did you send the orchids?”

  “By Western Union messenger.”

  “Were they wrapped?”

  “Yes, they were in a box.”

  “About the size of a candy box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you send it?”

  “To the Golden Horn.”

  “And it was addressed to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pencil, pen and ink, typewriting, or …”

  “Oh, pen and ink. I wrote her name on the outside of the box—that is, on the wrapper, you know.”

  “The box was about the size of a three-pound candy box?”

  “I guess it was.”

  “Someone,” Mason said, “could very readily have taken that box at the Golden Horn, promised to take it to Esther Dilmeyer, then taken out the orchids and put in the drugged candy.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Mason said, “That could have been done all the more readily in case the person who received it was in a position of some responsibility.”

  Mildreth Faulkner studied the tips of her gloved fingers. She said, “I remember telling the boy he didn’t need to make a personal delivery, but to be certain they would reach her. … I can’t imagine …”

  “He probably delivered ’em to the doorman,” Mason said. “The doorman’s rather officious.”

  “That may have happened.”

  “How much is that stock of yours worth?” Mason asked.

  “A great deal—more than the real intrinsic value. You know how it is. I have three shops. They’re all making money. I’m my own boss. I control the business policies. I’m making a good living out of the business, and the business is building up all the time. That’s worth a great deal more to me than the book value of the stock. In other words, every thousand dollars’ income that I’m making out of the place on a setup like that, I figure is the equivalent of a twenty-five thousand dollar capital investment. But, of course, I couldn’t sell out on that basis.”

  Mason said, “I may have to pay out a little money. How high can I go?”

  She said, without hesitation, “Go to ten thousand dollars if you have to.”

  “But not more than that?”

  “N-n-no. Well, not without consulting me anyway.”

  Mason said, “I don’t think I’ll have to pay out a cent. If I do, it won’t be very much, but—well, I’ll do the best I can.

  “Della, call up the Golden Horn. See if Magard will give us the address of Lynk’s hide-out.”

  Mildreth Faulkner opened her purse, took out a folded slip of paper, hesitated, started to put it back, realized the lawyer’s eyes were on her, and said, “I have it here—the address of the Lilac Canyon cabin.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “From Esther Dilmeyer—but don’t give her away.”

  “All right, I won’t. Della, you take a taxi home and get some sleep. I’ll call you in an hour or an hour and a half, Miss Faulkner.”

  Mason walked over to the hat closet, put on his hat and coat, grinned cheerfully at his worried client. “Now, take it easy,” he said, “and don’t worry. Things are going to be all right. Those men are running a gambling place in connection with the Golden Horn, and there are half a dozen weak points in their armor. One of them is Mr. Magard, Mr. Lynk’s partner. I was at the Golden Horn with Lieutenant Tragg of the Homicide Squad. The doorman started getting officious, and Tragg put him in his place. By the time Magard got back, he knew that the police had been there. He’ll fall all over himself trying to square things up.”

  Mildreth Faulkner said, getting to her feet, “I feel better now than I have at any time in the last few hours. This thing hit me an awful blow.”

  “Well, we’ll do the best we can,” Mason promised.

  “You’re—you’re so thoroughly capable,” she said with a little laugh. “I feel that everything is all settled right now. You’re going out to the Golden Horn personally?”

  “No, I’m going to Lilac Canyon, if Lynk hasn’t returned to the Golden Horn.”

  “Well, no matter what happens, win, lose, or a draw, you’ll call me just as soon as … well, call me by three o’clock anyway. I’ll be waiting.”

  Mason said, reassuringly, “Sure, I’ll call you. Close up the shop, Della, and put out the lights. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 5

  The road up Lilac Canyon wound like a sinuous snake, twisting and turning. Side roads meandered off the main highway, following the contours of the steep hillsides to secluded little cabins, places almost within a stone’s throw of the city, yet still distinctly rural and rustic.

  At one time, before the city had entered upon its phenomenal spurt of growth, Lilac Canyon had been the hinterland. It was devoted to week-end cabins, little hideouts, places where city dwellers could spend quiet Saturday afternoons and Sundays.

  Then the city had expanded. Lilac Canyon was still too precipitous, too brushy, and too rural to lend itself to real estate subdivision, but the lots were pounced upon by those who wished relatively cheap hillside property within commuting distance of the metropolitan district.

  Mason had some trouble as he threaded his way along the winding pavement of the main road, locating the names of the roads which turned off. Eventually, however, he found Acorn Drive and turned off, following the road along the contours until he rounded the shoulder of a mountain from which he could look down on the valley, and see the long lighted lines which marked the location of boulevards; in the distance the bright blotches of the suburban cities.

  Mason slowed down, looking for house numbers, but the houses were back from the roadway, crowded up or down on the hillside, screened wherever possible by the scrub oak which was native to the hillside.

  Abruptly Mason saw the red light of a car parked ahead. Just beyond was another car, and beyond that still a third. Up from the road to the right, was a small cabin with lights ablaze. A group of men gathered on a porch which stretched from the front around to the side of the house. They were smoking, and the little pin points of red light made by the tips of their cigarettes glowed into alternate spurts of brilliance like stationary fireflies.

  The front door of the house was open. Across this illuminated oblong, men moved back and forth, men who kept their hats on. It might have been a Hollywood party, but there was no hilarity, no sounds of merriment emanating from the lighted building.

  Mason swung his car so that the headlights fell on the license plate of one of the parked cars. He saw that it held an “E” within a diamond, the sign of a police car.

  Abruptly, Mason changed his course and drove on past the group of parked automobiles.

  Three hundred yards beyond, the road ended in a paved circle which gave Mason barely enough room to turn around.

  Headed back toward town, he ran his car in close to the curb where there was a straight stretch free of parked automobiles. He switched out the lights, turned off the ignition, and climbed the two flights of stairs which led from the street, up the steep declivity to the porch.

  One of the men seated on the porch recognized him, came forward, took his arm, pushed him slightly to one side. “How about it, Mr. Mason? Got a story for us?”

  “On what?” Mason asked.

  “On the murder. How do you come in on it? Are you retained, and, if so, by whom? What’s it all about?”

  Mason said, “I think you are one up on me.”

  “On what?”

  “On the murder.”

  “You didn’t know about it?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to get in touch with Lieutenant Tragg,” Mason said. “I tried to reach him at headquarters. They told me I’d find him here. They didn’t say what was wrong. You say a man was killed?”

  “Yes. Shot in the back with a thirty-two caliber revolver.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “No.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Harvey J. Lynk is the name.”

  “Lynk,” Mason said, “means nothing to me. What did he do?”

  “Big time stuff. One of the owners of the Golden Horn, a nightclub. There’s an upstairs above that nightclub.”

  “Rooms?” Mason asked.

  “Roulette, craps, stud poker.”

  “What was this place? A love nest?”

  “No one knows—yet.”

  “You say he was one of the owners. Who’s the other?”

  “Clint Magard.”

  “Has he been advised?”

  The newspaper man laughed. He said, “The police have advised him, and every newspaper in town has sent a man to ask him for a statement.”

  “Why all the commotion?” Mason asked.

  “Looks like a swell story. There’s a woman in the case somewhere. A woman’s overnight bag and some stuff are in there. Powder spilled on the dresser, a cigarette end with lipstick on it.… Tragg has a couple of leads he’s working on. Have an idea we can make it a nice, juicy scandal-killing before we get done. Sweet young thing fighting to save her honor, finally pointing a gun. Lynk grabbed her. There was a struggle. She has no recollection of pulling the trigger. She heard an explosion. Lynk fell backward. Dazed, she dropped the gun and ran, afraid to tell anyone because … Hell, I should go ahead and outline a perfect defense for you. You’ll probably be the attorney representing her and get ten thousand dollars for thinking up the stuff I’m giving you for nothing.”

  Mason chuckled. “Well,” he said, “if Tragg is as busy as all this, I won’t bother him. I’ll catch him some other time.”

  “Want me to tell him you’re here?”

  “No. Don’t tell him anything about my being here. I have something to take up with him and don’t want to tip my hand. I’d prefer to walk in on him without having him know I’m looking for him.”

  “Figure on pulling a little surprise?” the reporter asked.

  “Not exactly, but there’s no reason why he should waste a lot of time speculating over why I want to see him and what I want to see him about.”

  “Something to that. And you can’t give us a story?”

  “No.”

  “Anything in what you want to see Tragg about?”

  “Nothing you’d care to publish.”

  “You don’t know whether you’re going to get in on this case?”

  Mason laughed. “I didn’t even know there was a case. I’ve never seen Lynk in my life, and had no idea he’d been killed.”

  He turned back toward the stairs. “Well, so-long. I…”

  A man’s form loomed in the doorway of the house, cast a shadow along the porch. Lieutenant Tragg said, “Well, dust the whole damn thing for fingerprints and—Where’s that photographer? I want a photograph of …”

  He stopped midsentence as he saw Perry Mason halfway down the steps. “Hey, you!” he shouted.

  Mason paused and looked back.

  “What the devil are you doing out here?”

  “Come down to the car,” Mason invited.

  “No. I’m too busy. Talk right here …”

  Mason jerked his thumb toward the cluster of lighted cigarettes which marked the little group of reporters.

  Tragg said, “You may be right at that.”

  He followed Mason down the stairs to where the lawyer had the car parked.

  “Okay,” Tragg said, “what did you want to see Lynk about?”

  Mason smiled ruefully. “To tell you the truth, I thought I’d steal a march on you, but see you beat me to it.”

  “How do you mean steal a march?”

  “Well, I wanted to know more about Esther Dilmeyer, who her friends were, wanted to get a line on anyone she’d been going with, wanted to find out whether her folks were living, whether she had much mail.”

  “You thought Lynk could tell you?”

  “Yes. I had an idea he could.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  Mason said evasively, “I don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t you talk with Magard? He was at the office where the information would be more readily available.”

  Mason said, “I was going to talk with them both.”

  Tragg regarded him thoughtfully. “Holcomb,” he announced at length, “always claimed you played dirty pool, Mason. I could never see it that way. I figured that you were on one side, Holcomb on the other. It was a fair fight. You moved a little faster than Holcomb could follow. At times, your hands were quicker than the eye—Holcomb’s eye, anyway.”

  “Well?” Mason asked.