“All right, you do that,” Mason said.

  “Would you—Could you wait here while I pack up?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mason told her, “but I’ve had quite a day. You won’t have any trouble now. Just put your things in the car and go back to your apartment.”

  “You—Well . . . if you could wait just a few minutes . . . “

  Mason shook his head.

  “I know,” she said. “I understand. You’re terribly busy and I guess you are pretty well bushed . . . . I guess you’re out of patience with me because I won’t call the police. All right, thank you again, Mr. Mason. Thank you so much.”

  Mason smiled, patted her on the back and walked out the door.

  He had reached a point about halfway to the office of the manager when he heard a door open behind him, the sound of running steps, and the young woman’s voice. “Mr. Mason, please—oh, please!”

  The lawyer turned.

  She ran up and literally flung herself on him, hugging him to her in an ecstasy of terror. “Mr. Mason, please . . . please!”

  “What is it this time?” he asked.

  “Something terrible—something awful! You must . . . hush! We can’t talk it over here, someone will hear us . . . . Please come.”

  “Something new?” the lawyer asked.

  “Something terrible.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “A . . . “ She lowered her voice to a whisper. “A body.”

  “Where?”

  “In the shower.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . I’m afraid he is. He looks dead.”

  Mason turned, put his arm around the trembling young woman, said, “All right, take it easy now. You’re going to have to pull yourself together. You had no idea the body was there?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  “How did you find it?”

  “I was going to get my things together and I . . . I went to the bathroom and he was there, all crumpled up in the shower.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “now we have to notify the police.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I leave and let you—”

  “You can do nothing of the sort,” Mason said. “That would be the worst thing you could do. You have to stay now and face the music.”

  “I . . . I—”

  “You’re afraid of the police, aren’t you?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, terribly.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” Mason said. “They’ll give you your best protection if you’re innocent . . . and you are innocent, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You knew nothing about the body being there?”

  “No.”

  Mason held the door of the unit open for her.

  “Oh, I hate to go in,” she said. “I—”

  “Sure you do,” Mason told her, “but you’ve got to face the music.”

  He gently eased her into the unit, then kicked the door shut. “Now then,” he said, “suppose you quit lying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You knew the body was there.”

  She looked at him with wide-eyed indignation. “Why, Mr. Mason. I—Why, how can you accuse me of anything like that?”

  The lawyer’s eyes regarded her steadily.

  After a moment her eyes faltered.

  “The reason you wanted me to come down here,” Mason said, “the reason you were so anxious to have me meet you in this motel room, was that you knew the body was here. Either you killed him or you had discovered the body.

  “You didn’t want to tell me about it. You wanted me to be the one to discover it. You thought I’d discover it and call the police. You were going to enter the unit with this story about a holdup and—”

  “That story about the holdup was true, Mr. Mason.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Mason said. “It was an alibi you concocted, and rather a crude alibi, to account for your absence and your excitement. The reason you called me was because you knew the body was there. I tricked you. Instead of discovering the body and telephoning the police, I pretended that I knew nothing about the body being there.”

  “You . . . you’d seen it?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you didn’t let on. You—”

  “I was testing you,” Mason said. “I wanted to see if you’d break down and tell me, or if you’d try to pull this phony stunt of pretending that you didn’t know it was there and had gone to the bathroom and found it, and then dashed out to overtake me before I left.”

  She suddenly flung herself in his arms and started sobbing.

  “That’s what happened?” Mason asked.

  “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “That’s why I telephoned you. I . . . I had found the body.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “How would you expect? I had been out and when I came home I had to go to the bathroom and . . . there he was.”

  “All right,” Mason told her, “we’ve got to notify the police. Now, the main thing is for you to tell me the truth now.”

  “I’ve told it to you.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  “What about the holdup?”

  “It was true. It happened.”

  Mason said, “Do you want to wait in the unit while I call the police?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  “We’d better not call through the manager’s office,” Mason said. “That would make even more trouble. There’s a telephone booth down by the swimming pool. We’ll use that. You have a key to this place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lock it,” Mason said. “Come with me.”

  They closed and locked the outer door. Mason escorted her to the end of the swimming pool, then to the telephone booth. He dropped in a dime, dialed operator, said, “Police Headquarters, please. This is an emergency.” When Headquarters answered, he said, “Perry Mason talking. May I speak with the Homicide Department, please?”

  A moment later Lt. Tragg’s voice came on the line. “Well, well, Perry. What is it this time? Not another murder, I hope.”

  “Apparently it is,” Mason said.

  “Where are you now?”

  Mason told him.

  “Where’s the body?”

  “In one of the motel units here.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, I have my client with me.”

  “She’s the occupant of the unit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who discovered the body?”

  “I did.”

  “Why did she kill him, self-defense?”

  “She says she didn’t kill him.”

  “You’ve done nothing about moving or touching the body?”

  “That’s right. The body’s in the shower; that is, half in and half out of the shower stall.”

  “And your client knows nothing about it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why did she call you?”

  “It was on another matter.”

  “Keep out of the place, don’t touch anything, don’t leave any more fingerprints, don’t leave and don’t let your client try to leave,” Lt. Tragg said. “We’ll be out.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lt. Tragg of Homicide emerged from the motel unit to stand by Mason’s car where Mason sat with Nancy Banks. “All right, young woman,” he said. “You had that motel room. Why did you rent it?”

  “I . . . I wanted to have a place where I could talk with Mr. Mason privately.”

  “About what?”

  “About some business affairs that don’t need to enter into the picture.”

  “Now, let’s come down to earth,” Tragg said. “A murder was committed in that motel unit. Where were you when the crime was committed?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what time the crime was committed.”

  “When did you discover the body?”

  “When I came back.”

  “Back from where?”

  “Back from my apartment.”

  “Where is your apartment?”

  She told him.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I went there to . . . to attend to some things that—Well, I had some money I wanted to dispose of.”

  “What do you mean, dispose of?”

  “I wanted to put it where someone wouldn’t find it.”

  “What someone?”

  “No particular someone.”

  “All this sounds very interesting,” Tragg said. “I’d like to know a little more about that.”

  Mason said, “Now, just a moment, Lieutenant. Let’s have it understood that this questioning is not going to be done in what we might call an accusing manner.”

  Tragg said, “Then we’d better have an understanding that the answers aren’t going to be made in what you might call an evasive manner.”

  Mason said, “The story is not a simple one, Lieutenant. Miss Banks has a brother. The brother had been arrested for embezzlement and—”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Tragg interrupted. “When I want a statement from you, Mason, I’ll ask for it. Right now I want a statement from your client. I want some very definite answers to some very direct questions. I know what I’m driving at, and you may or may not know, but I don’t want some smooth lawyer gumming up the works and tipping his client off to the answers she’s supposed to make.”

  Mason turned to his client. “Go ahead, Nancy,” he said. “Tell him. The very worst thing you can do right now is to let Lieutenant Tragg act under any misapprehension. He’s a square shooter despite the fact that he’s a hammer-and-tongs interrogator.”

  “That’s better,” Tragg said. “Now, Miss Banks, do you know this dead man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s Marvin Fremont.”

  “Do you have any connection with him?”

  “I—My brother works for him.”

  “What does Fremont do? What’s his line?”

  “He’s an investor. He deals in antiques and curios, and he buys and sells real estate on the side.”

  “You have trouble with him?”

  “My brother did.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He accused my brother of embezzlement.”

  “Any other trouble?”

  “My brother went to a horse race and bet on a winning horse and—Well, Mr. Fremont wanted the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money that was won.”

  “Did he get it?”

  “Apparently so. He had my brother arrested and thrown in jail, and they took the winning ticket away from him, and Mr. Fremont filed a lawsuit and is going to get the money.”

  Mason started to say something, then, at a glance from Tragg, checked himself.

  “Now, you retained Perry Mason. What for, to help your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I wanted to get bail, that is, to put up bail so my brother could get out.”

  “What kind of bail?”

  “Cash.”

  “Who furnished the cash?”

  “I did.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I bet on a winning horse.”

  “What horse?”

  “Dough Boy.”

  “What odds?”

  “I put five hundred dollars on him to win and got . . . well, a rather nice stake, some fourteen thousand dollars.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I didn’t collect it personally. I gave the tickets to Mr. Mason and he collected.”

  “What did Mr. Mason do with the money?”

  “He turned it over to me.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I asked him to put up bail for my brother in the amount of five thousand dollars and gave Mr. Mason five thousand dollars for that purpose, and paid him his fee.”

  “And he put up the bail?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened to the balance of the money?”

  “I had it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I lost it.”

  “How?”

  “I was held up.”

  “When?”

  “When I went to my apartment to conceal the money and to . . . well, to fix it so I wouldn’t have all of my eggs in one basket. I wanted to have someone take part of it.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Lawton.”

  “What’s her first name?”

  “Lorraine.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “She has the apartment across the hall from mine.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She doesn’t have to work. That is, she isn’t dependent on work. She . . . she’s been married.”

  “Alimony?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Well, mostly alimony.”

  “Other contributions?”

  “She manages a trout farm, part of the time.”

  “What trout farm?”

  “Osgood’s Trout Farm. There’s a pool there. You rent an outfit and catch trout and they charge you for each trout you catch. She works there sometimes. She knows Mr. Osgood, the owner.”

  “Did you give her part of the money?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was held up before I could see her.”

  “What happened to the money?”

  “The man who held me up took it.”

  “What’s the name of the apartment house?”

  “The Lockhard.”

  “Where?”

  “Lockhard Avenue.”

  “What’s the number of your apartment?”

  “511”

  “Who was the man who held you up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Describe him.”

  “He was rather short. I think he was about forty. He had a mask that had been made by putting a handkerchief around his forehead, holding it in place with a hat and letting the handkerchief hang down over his face.

  There were two holes cut for his eyes. All I could see was the hat, the handkerchief and the eyes. I . . . I knew he smoked because I could smell tobacco.”

  “Did he have a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he get the money?”

  “Yes, of course. He took it from me.”

  “What makes you think he was about forty?”

  “His manner, the way he moved, his figure, his voice.”

  “Where did this holdup take place?”

  “Where I park my car, the parking lot near the apartment house where most of the people in the apartment house park their automobiles.”

  “Do you leave yours there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Regularly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Parking attendant?”

  “No. It isn’t really a formal parking lot. It’s a vacant lot that’s owned by the man who owns the apartment house, and he lets the tenants park there.”

  “Any sign to that effect?”

  “Yes. There’s a sign that says parking is for tenants of the apartment house only, but out there very few other people would want to park—That is, it’s the only large apartment house in the neighborhood.”

  “Think you’d know this man if you saw him again?”

  “If I saw him wearing the mask, I might—I doubt it. I never saw his face at all.”

  “How tall?”

  “Rather short. He was only an inch or two taller than I am.”

  “How heavy?”

  “Well, he was reasonably heavy, sort of . . . well, about fortyish heavy.”

  “Chunky?”

  “I suppose you’d call him that.”

  Tragg reached in his pocket, whipped out a handkerchief in which two eye holes had been cut. He placed it on his forehead, pulled his hat down to hold the handkerchief in place at just the right elevation so his eyes showed through the holes in the handkerchief. “Like this?” he asked.

  Nancy Banks gave a little scream.

  “Remind you of something?”

  “You look—you look exactly like the man.”

  “Well, I didn’t hold you up,” Tragg said. “For your information, I got that handkerchief from the dead man’s pocket.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Oh . . . !”

  Tragg listened to the tone of the exclamation.

  “Surprise you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t think he was the one?”

  “I—It never occurred to me.”

  “But he could have been?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Now, you left your apartment house and came back here to this motel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this dead man was there?”

  “Well, it . . . it wasn’t quite that simple. I didn’t find him until—”

  “He was there?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “When did you find him?”

  “I . . . I don’t know the exact time, but I called Paul Drake, the detective, before I had found him. I was told I could reach Mr. Mason at night through the Drake Detective Agency.”

  “So you called?”

  “Yes.”

  “From here?”

  “No, from a phone booth out along the road.”

  “Any answer?”

  “Yes, I talked with Mr. Drake personally. I told him I had to see Mr. Mason at once on a matter of great importance.”

  “By that matter of great importance you meant the holdup?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t get Mason right away?”

  “No.”

  “How long?”

  “It seemed hours.”

  “Was it as much as an hour?”

  “All of that.”

  “Two hours?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Where were you all of that time?”

  “At the phone booth.”

  “Where was that phone booth?”

  “At a filling station.”

  “Where?”