“But why should we be followed?”

  “Because you may have been traced to San Francisco, and because the sheriff’s office at Fresno may have decided to keep an eye on you.”

  “But why should they? What business is it of theirs? Why, that’s absurd! After all, if Ed Davenport went on a binge and some cutie slipped him knockout drops they can’t hold Myrna responsible.”

  “There may be some other angles,” Mason said. “From what you tell me the man is in very poor health. From what Dr. Renault says he must have been in a state of shock, a state of shock which caused the doctor to believe the man was dead. Now then, let’s suppose Ed Davenport started driving around in his pajamas. He was very apt to collapse and die, or he might have become involved in an accident. If he gets injured, with his resistance down to such a low ebb, the injuries may prove fatal.”

  “Well, I still don’t see how they expect to hold us responsible for his climbing out of that window. That was the doctor’s fault. Ed was in this state of shock or exhaustion or whatever it was, and that fool doctor shot that adrenaline or something right into his heart. That’s dynamite. They only do that to dead people when there’s no hope. It’s a last desperate gamble. You’d think the fool would have had sense enough to be sure before he left the room.”

  Mason nodded thoughtfully.

  “Of course,” she went on, “it made a pretty kettle of fish. And you up there in Paradise thinking Ed was dead. Just think what would have happened if he’d headed back to Paradise and found you going through his things. Crazy as he was he might have done anything! We were terribly afraid you might get into trouble up there.”

  “I did,” Mason said.

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing particularly serious,” Mason said. “I’ll tell you both about it when I see what happens after we get to the airport at Los Angeles. In the meantime quit worrying and try and comfort Mrs. Davenport.”

  “Oh, she’s all right now. But, Mr. Mason, we’re going to have to do something for her. I’m completely satisfied that Ed Davenport has been going through her money just as fast as he can. She doesn’t care a thing in the world about money just so she can grow flowers, and—”

  “How much of Delano’s estate has been distributed?” Mason interposed.

  “Well, there was a partial distribution and—it amounts to something over a hundred thousand, I guess, and there’s more money coming in all the time. In addition to all that Ed Davenport raised some money on a note that she signed with him. He told her it was just a matter of form, but you can’t tell me any of that sort of stuff! I wasn’t born yesterday. I think I know something about men!”

  “I dare say you do,” Mason said, “but in the meantime we’ll relax until we get to Los Angeles. Then you get in a taxicab and go home, and, if there’s nothing new, be at my office by two-thirty in the afternoon.”

  Mason got up, tapped Della on the shoulder and led the way to two vacant seats in the front of the plane.

  “Well?” Della Street asked when Mason had seated her by the window and dropped into position in the seat beside her.

  “Did you get the story?” Mason asked.

  “Most of it,” she said. “Apparently Ed Davenport was on one of his toots and was rolled. He got sick and passed out. The doctor gave him a shot. Davenport came to and found the door locked, so he thought someone was trying to restrain him. He got out of the window, got in somebody’s car and went places.”

  “What places?” Mason asked.

  “Probably he started home.”

  “Not with all of the Highway Patrol being alerted to look for a man driving a car, clad only in pajamas.”

  “Well,” she said, “what do you think?”

  Mason smiled. “A little bit depends on what Paul Drake has found out about that San Bernardino motel, and a great deal depends on what happens when we get to Los Angeles.”

  “You think they were followed to San Francisco?”

  Mason nodded.

  “You think that man reading the newspaper was interested in them?”

  “I think he had cop written all over him,” Mason said. “However, we may as well get a few minutes’ sleep before we land.”

  And with that Mason touched the button which slid the seat back into a reclining position.

  “Now,” Della Street complained, “you’ve got me wide awake.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Thinking over what’s happened.”

  Mason said sleepily, “Wait an hour and a half and you may have a lot more to think over.”

  Chapter 5

  The plane glided to a landing, then taxied up to the airport.

  Mason and Della Street watched Sara Ansel and Myrna Davenport walk through the terminal and enter a taxicab.

  The cab swung out into the driveway and then into the traffic.

  A businesslike car with a tall aerial in the rear pulled out of a parking position and swung in behind the taxicab.

  “Well, that does it,” Mason said.

  “Police?” Della Street asked.

  Mason nodded.

  “What are they waiting for, why don’t they go ahead and make an arrest?” Della Street asked.

  “They’re trying to establish a pattern of action.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We now get two taxicabs.”

  “Two?”

  Mason nodded.

  “Wouldn’t it be cheaper to take one until we get to town?”

  “Exactly,” Mason said, “but this way is more confusing.”

  “Do I try to see if I’m being followed?”

  “Definitely not,” Mason told her. “You’re the soul of innocence. You settle back in the cushions. You’ve had a long, hard day, and you’re going home, take a bath and get a few hours’ sleep until you feel like coming to the office, or until I call you.”

  “And in the meantime what will you be doing?”

  Mason said, “I’ll bathe, shave, change clothes and see what happens.”

  “You think something is going to happen?”

  “I wouldn’t be too surprised.”

  “What?”

  Mason said, “Well, I might—just might—run out to the Pacific Palisades Motor Court at San Bernardino”

  “Why?”

  Mason said, “The man in unit thirteen might turn out to know something about Ed Davenport.”

  “Oh-oh!” she said, and then, after a moment, “Suppose he does. Then what?”

  Mason said, “I might talk with him. I’d like to establish a pattern of action myself.”

  “Won’t you be able to get any sleep?”

  “I won’t if I go out there, but I won’t go out there unless Paul Drake reports the cabin is occupied.”

  “Why not take me with you?”

  Mason shook his head firmly. “You, young lady, are going to get a little shut-eye. The party may get rough from now on.”

  “You don’t think there’s a simple explanation for this, that Ed Davenport went on a bust and—?”

  “There may be a simple explanation,” Mason said, “but there are complicating factors. Here’s a taxicab, Della. In you go. You have enough money for expenses?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Okay. See you later.”

  Mason waved good-by to her and stood stretching and yawning, looking at the glow of light above the city.

  Another businesslike car with an aerial in the rear slid out from the parking place and followed Della Street’s taxicab.

  Mason took another cab and, fighting back in almost irresistible impulse, determinedly kept his eyes to the front and never once looked back to see whether or not a police car was following.

  Mason paid off the taxi driver in front of his apartment house, went in and took a shower. Then, wrapped in his bathrobe, called the Drake Detective Agency.

  The night operator answered the phone.

  “This is Perry Mason,” he said. “I suppose Paul Drake is wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.”

  “He was up here until well after midnight,” the operator said. “He said that if you called we were to relay reports that have come in on that San Bernardino job.”

  “Let’s have them,” Mason said.

  “Unit thirteen,” the operator said, “according to the data made available by our operatives in a telephone report, was rented over the telephone from Fresno Sunday night by a man who identified himself as Frank L. Stanton. He said that he was going to be in late Monday, that he wanted a unit and specifically instructed that the unit be left unlocked so he wouldn’t have to bother waking the manager and getting a key. He said he might not get in until between two and three o’clock Tuesday morning, that he would want the unit for two consecutive days. He asked how much the price was, was informed that it was six dollars per day, and said that he would go to the telegraph office and wire twelve dollars for two days.”

  “That was done?” Mason asked.

  “That was done.”

  “And what about Stanton?”

  “Up until thirty minutes ago, when the operative telephoned in a report. Stanton hadn’t shown up, but here’s a development that you’ll probably be interested in.”

  “What is it?”

  “Another detective agency is on the job.”

  “Watching for Stanton?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Who is it?”

  “We’re not certain yet but we think it’s Jason L. Beckemeyer, a private detective from Bakersfield.”

  “How are you making your identification?” Mason asked.

  “By the license number of the automobile. That gave our men the first lead. Then I telephoned in for a description of Beckemeyer and he answers the description of the driver. Fifty-two, five feet seven, weight a hundred and eighty pounds. A short, chunky, barrel-chested individual.”

  “Any idea what he’s after?”

  “Apparently just trying to get a line on who comes to unit thirteen.”

  “They think that’s the one he’s watching?”

  “They can’t be certain but they think so. The other units are all occupied.”

  “Have the men keep on the job,” Mason said. “Also send out another operative to tail Beckemeyer. When he quits he’ll probably go to a telephone to report. I’d like very much to find out what number he calls. It’ll be from a pay station and your man may be able to do something.”

  “It’s pretty difficult to get those telephone numbers, but we’ll try.”

  “Give it a try,” Mason said. “Now here’s something else. I’m working on a case involving a man by the name of Ed Davenport. He was supposed to have died in Crampton yesterday. The only trouble with that theory is that the corpse climbed out of a window and drove away.

  “It becomes important to know where he was and what he did the night before his ‘death.’ Probably he was in Fresno. The police will be nosing around in a halfhearted sort of way. They’ll be looking for a registration of Edward Davenport. In all probability they won’t find a thing because he would have been using an assumed name.

  “That motel at San Bernardino gives us a clue to his assumed name. It was probably Frank L. Stanton.

  “That may give us a head start on the police. Have your correspondent in Fresno start tracing Frank L. Stanton. Put a dozen men on it if you have to. I want results and I want the thing kept completely confidential. Can do?”

  “Can do,” she said. “We work with a good outfit at Fresno.”

  “Okay,” Mason told her. “I’ll be in my office sometime around ten o’clock, but call me at my apartment if anything important develops.”

  Mason shaved, had a drink of warm milk, stretched out on a davenport with the morning paper, covered himself with a blanket, read for ten or fifteen minutes, then dozed off into slumber, from which he was awakened by the sharp, insistent ringing of the telephone bell.

  Since only Paul Drake and Della Street had the number of his unlisted private phone in the apartment, Mason grabbed for the receiver, said, “Hello.”

  Paul Drake’s voice was sharply incisive.

  “You’re usually waking me up out of a sound sleep, Perry. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Shoot,” Mason said, “but I hope it’s important.”

  “It is if you’re representing Myrna Davenport. My night operator said you were working on the Ed Davenport case.”

  “What about it?”

  “Myrna Davenport’s arrested and is being questioned about a murder.”

  “Whose murder?”

  “Two murders. Ed Davenport, her husband, and Hortense Paxton, her cousin.”

  “How come?”

  “A secret order of exhumation was made day before yesterday. The body of Hortense Paxton was disinterred. She was the niece of William C. Delano. She died a short time before he did, and—”

  “Yes, yes,” Mason said. “I know all about that. Go on, what about it?”

  “They found enough arsenic in the body to kill a horse. There seems to be no question that she died of arsenic poisoning, although a physician signed it out as a natural death.”

  “And what about Mrs. Davenport?”

  “Picked up for questioning on that murder and also on orders from Fresno for the murder of her husband.”

  “Have they found his body?”

  “The husband’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not yet, but they seem to have uncovered some new evidence up there. At first they thought a doctor had made a mistake. They gave him hell but he stuck by his guns and now he seems to have them pretty well convinced the man was murdered.”

  “Then the body climbed out through a window and drove away,” Mason said. “That’s a pretty active corpse if you ask me.”

  “Well, I don’t know all the details. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “Where is Mrs. Davenport?”

  “Picked up by the local police, but she may have been flown to Fresno for questioning there.”

  “Have you found out anything about Davenport’s last night in Fresno, where he stayed—probably under the name of Stanton?”

  “Not yet. Perry, but we’re working on it. Now here’s the problem, Perry. Here’s where all this begins to get pretty close to you. You may lose a little hide over this one.”

  “Shoot,” Mason said.

  “Davenport, you know, had the business office of his mining company up in Paradise. So the police telephoned the sheriff of Butte County at Oroville and the sheriff went up to Paradise to make an investigation.”

  “Then he found out that you had been up there last night, that you’d been in the place, apparently taking charge of things for the widow. There was an envelope that Davenport had left to be opened in the event of his death.

  “The sheriff’s office opened the envelope. In it they found six sheets of blank paper. They submitted the envelope to an expert who states that the envelope had been steamed open within the last twenty-four hours and resealed with mucilage.

  “You can figure out where that leaves you. I thought I’d wake you up and let you know because you may be in a position where you have to answer some embarrassing questions.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as they can locate you. This angle is hot as a stove lid. They think you found accusations that named your client as a poisoner and destroyed the original letter, substituting those blank sheets of paper.”

  “Mrs. Davenport has been formally arrested?” Mason asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “What about Sara Ansel?”

  “No charge against her. Della Street wanted me to tell you that she’s been haunting the office but Della has been holding her off—”

  “Della?” Mason said. “Is she at the office?”

  “Bright and early,” Drake said. “She opened up at nine o’clock.”

  “The devil!” Mason exclaimed. “I told her to get some sleep. What time is it now?”

  “Ten o’clock. Della thought you’d be wanting to sleep so she went up to open the office and filter things through so that you wouldn’t be disturbed except on a matter of urgency.”

  “Does she know about this?”

  “Not all of it,” Drake said. “I called you first. I’m going down the hall and tell her about it as soon as I hang up.”

  Mason said, “Tell her I’ll be at the office within twenty or twenty-five minutes.”

  “Provided the authorities don’t pick you up for questioning,” Drake reminded him.

  “Tell her I’ll be up within twenty or twenty-five minutes,” Mason repeated and hung up.

  Mason hurriedly dressed, left his apartment house by a back exit, and hurried to his office. He hesitated for a moment at the door of the Drake Detective Agency, then decided to see Della Street first and walked rapidly down the corridor. He fitted his latchkey to the door of his private office and went in.

  Della Street saw him and placed a warning finger on her lips. She hurriedly closed the doors to the law library and the connecting office, then lowered her voice and said, “Chief, we have a bear by the tail.”

  “How come?”

  “Wait until you hear Sara Ansel’s story.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s fit to be tied.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s suddenly found out that Myrna Davenport wasn’t the sweet, passive little thing she thought.”

  “How did she find out?”

  “She wants to tell you. Chief, you aren’t really obligated to represent Mrs. Davenport in this case. This is a murder case. Your agreement with her was to represent her in the estate matter and”

  Mason interrupted with a shake of his head.

  “No?” Della asked.

  “No,” Mason said. “When I take a client I stay with that client.”

  “I know,” she said, “but—well, wait until you talk with Sara Ansel.”

  “You’ve talked with her?”

  “Generally.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Bad.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “suppose Myrna’s guilty. She’s at least entitled to a fair representation. She’s entitled to her day in court. She’s entitled to her constitutional rights. She’s entitled to be confronted with the witnesses against her and to have them cross-examined. But somehow I can’t feel this case is as black as it seems.”