Mason remained silent.

  Mrs. Farrell opened the atlas. She took out an eight-by- ten glossy photograph from between the pages and handed it to Mason.

  Mason saw what at first seemed to be a naked woman, but after a moment saw she was wearing the very briefest of light-colored Bikini bathing suits.

  Mason looked at the voluptuous figure, then suddenly started as his eyes came to focus on the girl’s face. He moved over closer to the light.

  Mrs. Farrell gave a short laugh. “I’m afraid you men are all the same,” she said. “She’s wearing a light-colored Bikini suit, Mr. Mason. She’s not nude. She’s dressed!”

  “I see she is,” Mason said drily.

  “You have to look twice to see it.”

  Mason nodded. “I’m looking twice.”

  The photograph showed a blond young woman, with well-rounded curves, apparently the same young woman whom Mason had seen earlier in the evening lying dead on the bed in the Redfern Hotel.

  “I take it,” Mason said, “that you have some connection with the woman shown in the photograph.”

  Mrs. Farrell laughed. “I’m afraid the connection is with my husband.”

  Mason raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.

  Mrs. Farrell handed Mason a piece of paper which was evidently a clipping from a popular magazine. The clipping illustrated a curvacious woman clad in a Bikini bathing suit and across the top of the ad was printed in large, black letters: “SHE’LL LOVE IT.” In smaller type appeared: “And she’ll love you for it. Get these private Bikini bathing suits. A wonderful, intimate, personal present, for just the right girl.”

  The ad went on to extol the virtues of the specially made Bikini bathing suit.

  “Yes,” Mason said drily, “I’ve seen these ads.”

  “Evidently my husband answered this,” she said, “purchased a suit by mail, and persuaded this young woman to put the suit on,”

  Mason studied the picture thoughtfully. “This is a posed picture?”

  “It is.”

  Again Mason studied the picture.

  Mrs. Farrell said, “For your information, Mr. Mason, either the suit was donned for the occasion or—Well, I’ll be charitable and say that the suit was donned for the occasion, … Do you find her so very attractive that you’re completely engrossed?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said. “I was trying to make out the background.”

  “Well, it’s dark and out of focus. I’m afraid you can’t get much from it, Mr. Mason. However, if you’ll notice the pattern of the rug beneath those high-heeled shoes, which are designed to bring out the shapeliness of her legs, you’ll notice a certain very definite pattern. For your information, Mr. Mason, that rug is in my husband’s bedroom. Apparently, the picture was taken while I was in New York a couple of months ago.”

  “I see,” Mason said.

  “My husband,” she went on bitterly, “is something of an amateur photographer. He took this picture and two others. Evidently he wanted something to remember the girl by.”

  “And how did you get them?” Mason asked.

  “I happened to notice that my husband’s camera, which is usually kept in his den, was in a dresser drawer in the bedroom. There was a roll of films in the camera and three films had been exposed. I’m afraid I have a nasty, suspicious nature, Mr. Mason. I slipped that roll of films out of the camera and replaced it with another. I turned the film to number four so that, in case my husband investigated, he wouldn’t know there was anything wrong, and in case he had the films developed and found three perfect blanks, he would think something had gone wrong with the shutter, when he was taking these pictures.”

  “I see,” Mason commented drily. “I take it that there were then two other exposed pictures on this roll?”

  “Yes,” she said significantly. “It was a well-exposed roll, and the model was well exposed.”

  Mason strove to keep his voice from showing undue interest. “I wonder if you’ve been able to locate the model?” he asked.

  Mason raised his eyebrows.

  “She is Rose M. Calvert, and in case you’re interested, the ‘M’ stands for Mistletoe, believe it or not. Her father, I understand, insisted on the name. It turned out to be quite appropriate.

  “Rose Calvert was an employee in the brokerage firm which handles accounts for my husband, and, I believe, for some of the officials of the Texas Global Company. My husband has a roving eye, and Rose Calvert—well, you can see from the photograph what she has.”

  “She’s still working with the brokerage company?” Mason asked.

  “Not Rose. Rose, I understand, is living on the fat of the land. She has an apartment at the Lane Vista Apartments, number 319, but I’m afraid that’s just one of the perches where this young bird lights from time to time. Apparently, she drops in for mail, and to change her clothes. I’ve had the place under surveillance for a few days.”

  “There are then two other pictures?” Mason prompted.

  “Two others.”

  Mason waited expectantly.

  Mrs. Farrell shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Mason. They’re indicative of a progressing friendship. Evidently this young woman doesn’t have the slightest compunction about exhibiting her charms to men or to cameras.”

  “I’m shockproof,” Mason said.

  “I’m not.”

  Mason studied the face of the girl in the picture.

  Mrs. Farrell said, somewhat bitterly, “You men are all alike. For your information, Mr. Mason, those fine curves will be blanketed in fat in another ten years.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Mason said, handing back the photograph.

  “My husband likes them like this,” Mrs. Farrell said tapping the photograph.

  Mason almost automatically glanced at the lounging pajamas.

  Mrs. Farrell laughed and said, “It’s all right, Mr. Mason. I don’t make any secret of it. Now, how about a drink?”

  “Well,” Mason said, “I could be induced if you twisted my arm.”

  “Hold it out,” she said.

  Mason held out his arm.

  Mrs. Farrell took hold of the wrist, held the lawyer’s arm tight against her body, gave it a gentle twist.

  “Ouch!” Mason said. “I’ll take it! I’ll take it!”

  She laughed huskily and said, “All right, sit down. I’ll have to go to the kitchen. What do you like, Scotch or bourbon?”

  “Scotch,” Mason said.

  “Soda?”

  “Please.”

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she told him, “but don’t wear that photograph out while I’m gone. I am going to have use for it.”

  When she had left the room, Mason hurriedly moved over to the atlas in which the photograph had been concealed. He riffled through the pages but was unable to find any other photographs.

  Mrs. Farrell entered the room, carrying a tray with two tall glasses.

  Mason held his drink to the light. “That looks pretty stout.”

  She laughed. “You look pretty stout yourself, Mr. Mason. I may as well confess that you’re one of my heroes. I’ve followed your cases with the greatest interest. I like your way of fighting.”

  “Thanks!” Mason said.

  She raised her glass.

  “Here’s to crime!” Mason said.

  “Here’s to us!” She touched the brim of her glass to his, let her eyes rest steadily on his as she raised the glass to her lips.

  Mason waited until she had seated herself, then said, “I am interested in how you were able to secure the information that you offered Mr. Conway. The list of proxies.”

  “Oh, that!”

  “Well?” Mason asked.

  She said, “Quite naturally, Mr. Mason, after I located this Rose Calvert, I became interested in her comings and goings. A couple of days ago, Rose Calvert was closeted in her apartment. It was one of the rare intervals when she was home for a fairly long period of time, and she was pounding away on a typewriter.

  “I have a firm of detectives that seem to be very competent indeed. The man who was on duty managed to inspect the wastebasket at the end of the corridor from time to time, hoping that Rose Calvert would perhaps have made some false starts and he could find enough torn scraps to find out what she was writing. As it turned out, he did far better than that. Rose Calvert was evidently writing a very, very confidential document for my husband. She was instructed to make as many copies as possible and to use fresh carbon sheets with each copy.

  “You know how a carbon sheet retains the impression of what has been typed, particularly if you can get the new carbon used in the first copy and there is nothing else on the sheet.

  “The detective produced the sheets, and I found that I had a perfect series of carbon papers showing the typing that Mrs. Calvert was doing for my husband.”

  “Mrs. Calvert?”

  “That’s right. She’s married and separated. Her husband lives out in the country somewhere.”

  “Know where?” Mason asked casually.

  She shook her head. “I’ve heard of the place. It’s out toward Riverside somewhere … . Would you like to see the carbons, Mr. Mason?”

  “Very much,” Mason said.

  She put down the drink and eased gracefully out of the chair. She walked over to a desk, opened a drawer and took out several sheets of carbon paper.

  “As nearly as I can tell, these are the carbon papers used in making the first copy,” she said. “She was making an original and seven copies. So, of course, there were a lot of duplicate sheets of carbon paper. I carefully segregated the different sheets.”

  “Have you copied them?”

  “I haven’t had time. I’ve had them photostated. I intended to give Mr. Conway one of these complete sets of carbon paper. Since you’re here and are his attorney, I’ll give it to you.”

  “Thanks,” Mason told her. “Thanks very much indeed.”

  She glanced at him archly. “Don’t mention it. Perhaps you can do something for me someday.”

  “Who knows?” Mason said.

  “You’ll have to protect me, Mr. Mason. I don’t want anyone, least of all Mr. Conway, to know where those carbon copies came from.”

  “You can trust my discretion,” Mason said. “However, I’m going to have to ask a favor. I want to use your phone.”

  “It’s in the bedroom. Help yourself.”

  Mason put down his glass, went to the bedroom, picked up the phone.

  “Number, please?” the operator asked.

  “Give me an outside line, please,” Mason said.

  “You’ll have to give me the number. I’ll get it for you.”

  Mason lowered his voice, gave the number of the Glade- dell Motel. When the number answered, he said, “Can you ring Unit 21?”

  “Surely, wait a moment, please.”

  Mason waited for several seconds, then the voice said, “I’m sorry, that phone doesn’t answer.”

  “Thanks,” Mason said, and hung up.

  He returned to the other room.

  Mrs. Farrell was stretched out on a chaise longue, showing up to advantage through the embroidered lounging pajamas.

  “Get your party?”

  “No. He didn’t answer.”

  “There’s no hurry. You can try again—later.”

  Mason sat down, picked up his drink, took a hasty swallow, said, “This is really loaded.”

  He looked at his watch.

  Her look was mocking.

  “Now you’re terribly impatient. You want to hurry through your drink. Now that you have the information you want, the documents you want, you are giving every indication of being in a hurry to be on your way. Am I that unattractive?”

  Mason said, “It isn’t that. It’s simply that I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Night work?”

  “Night work.”

  “I was hoping that while you were here you would relax and that we could get acquainted.”

  Mason said, “Perhaps your husband is having your apartment watched. He might suggest that you were entertaining men in your apartment.”

  Again she laughed. “Always the lawyer! Now, please, Mr. Mason, don’t tell anyone about the identity of Rosalind. I’m leaving it to you to protect me.”

  “And,” Mason said, “I suppose I’m not to say anything about these pictures?”

  “Not for a while,” she said.

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  She said, “When I’m through, I’m going to see that Mrs. Calvert has plenty of publicity. If she’s an exhibitionist, I’ll let them publish her picture where it will do the most good.”

  “You seem rather vindictive,” Mason said. “Do you feel that she stole your husband?”

  “Heavens, no!” she said. “But I’m vindictive just the same. I feel toward her the way one woman feels towards another who—I don’t know—she cheapens all of us. Before I get done with her, she’ll wish she’d never seen Gifford Farrell.

  “All right,” she went on, laughing, “don’t look at me like that. I’m a cat! And I have claws, Mr. Mason. I can be very, very dangerous when I’m crossed. I either like people or I don’t. I’m never lukewarm.”

  Mason said, getting to his feet, “I’m sorry, but I have to leave.”

  Abruptly she arose, gave him her hand. “I won’t try to detain you any longer. I can see you really don’t want to stay. Good night.”

  Mason stepped out into the corridor, carrying the sheets of fresh carbon paper in a roll.

  “Good night—and thanks,” he said.

  “Come again sometime,” she invited.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mason stopped at a telephone booth and called Paul Drake.

  “Anything on the gun, Paul?”

  “Hell, no! We’re just getting started.”

  “Any identification of the corpse?”

  “None so far. The police are grubbing around the hotel and can’t seem to get anywhere.”

  Mason said, “I’m on the track of something, Paul. I’m going to have to take a chance.”

  “You take too many chances,” Drake told him.

  “Not too many,” Mason said. “I take them too often.”

  “Well, that’s the same thing, only worse.”

  “According to the. law of averages, it’s worse,” Mason told him. “Now look, Paul, I’m going out to the Lane Vista Apartments. I want to see a Rose Calvert who is in Apartment 319. For your information, she’s probably going to be named as correspondent in a divorce suit by Mrs. Gifford Farrell.”

  “What’s the lead?” Drake asked.

  “Probably more of a hunch than anything else right now,” Mason told him. “The point is that there may be a private detective sticking around trying to get a line on her.

  “Can you have one of your men get out to the Lane Vista Apartments, scout the territory and see if he can find someone who looks like a detective?”

  “Sure. What does he do if he finds this guy?”

  “I’ll be out there,” Mason said, “inside of thirty minutes. I can make it from here in about fifteen minutes, and your man should be able to make it in fifteen minutes. I’ll give him fifteen minutes to case the place.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” Drake said. “My operatives are pretty clever at spotting men who are waiting around like that, but you just can’t tell what the setup is, and—”

  “I know,” Mason said. “I don’t want the impossible. I just want to know whether the place is being watched.”

  “And if it is?” Drake asked.

  “I want to find out about it.”

  “All right,” Drake said, “I’ll have a man there in fifteen minutes. I have a man sitting right here in the office who’s good. I’ll put him on the job.”

  “Does he know me?” Mason asked.

  “He knows you by sight. He’ll pick you up all right.”

  “All right. I’ll be there within thirty minutes. I’ll park my car a block or two away and walk past the entrance to the apartment without looking in. Have your man pick me up and brief me on the situation. Can do?”

  “Can do and will do,” Drake said.

  “How long you going to be there, Paul?”

  “Probably all night. At least until something definite breaks.”

  “Okay, I’ll be calling you.”

  “You’d better keep your nose clean,” Drake warned. “If any good private detective is out there, he’ll recognize you the minute he sees you.”

  “That’s why I want to know if he’s there,” Mason said and hung up.

  Mason looked at his watch, noted the time, drove until he found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that was open, sat at the lunch counter and had two leisurely cups of coffee. He paid for the coffee, entered the phone booth, called the Gladedell Motel and this time got Gerald Conway on the line.

  “Where have you been?” Mason asked.

  “Nowhere. Why?”

  “I called and you didn’t answer.”

  “Oh. I just ran out to a drugstore for shaving stuff and a toothbrush. What did you want?”

  “I wanted to tell you I have what I think is a complete proxy list. It doesn’t look too good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Just sit tight.”

  Mason hung up and drove to a point within two blocks of the Lane Vista Apartments, where he parked his car at the curb, got out and walked along the sidewalk, walking directly past the entrance to the apartment house without hesitating.

  Halfway to the next corner, a figure detached itself from the shadows and fell into step by Mason’s side.

  “Paul Drake’s man,” the figure said without turning his head.

  “Let’s take a look,” Mason told him.

  “All right. Around the corner.”

  “Anyone sitting on the place?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, and the two walked around the corner until they came to the mouth of an alley.

  The man paused, took a folder from his pocket containing his credentials and a small, fountain-pen flashlight.