“I don’t get you,” Della Street said.

  “It’s simple,” Mason pointed out. “If the two persons could have met and talked with each other, there would have been no necessity for going to all that elaborate trouble of scratching a message in the top of the can, sealing the can, and placing it in the cellar.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “The fact that the cellar was chosen as the place where the message was to be left means that both parties must have had access to the cellar.”

  She nodded.

  “Therefore,” Mason said, “we have a peculiar situation. Two persons have access to the same place, yet those persons don’t have contact with each other, and that place is highly unusual—the cellar of a big, rambling, frame residence.”

  Della Street said excitedly, “Now that you analyze it, it’s plain as day. One of the persons had to have access to the cellar through the garage that Hocksley rented, and the other one because he lived in Gentrie’s house.”

  Mason said, “That’s one of the possibilities.”

  “But, Chief,” Della Street said, “that brings up all sorts of complications.”

  “That’s just the point.”

  “Then you think Junior is mixed up with it—and Opal?”

  Mason said, “The evidence seems to point the other way.”

  He said, “Then the message in the can becomes perfectly meaningless . . . so far as the murder is concerned.”

  “Why? Oh, I get it. Because he and she were together. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Della Street said with a smile, “Once that message is deciphered, it may turn out to be ‘I love you, darling, no matter what happens.’ Persons in love are inclined to do things like that, you know—or do you?”

  Mason nodded, said, “Frankly, Della, if it had been a simple cipher where letters had been transposed in order to make a message, I would have been very much surprised if it had had anything to do with the murder. But as it is, I’m inclined to attach more importance to it. But the perfectly obvious and logical point seems to have escaped everyone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The one real clue as to the identity of the person for whom the message was intended.”

  “What’s the clue?”

  Mason said, “The fact that only one person got it, of course.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “Arthur Gentrie.”

  “Junior? I thought you said he . . .”

  “No, the father. He’s the one who went down in the cellar. He says he found the can lying in the box and opened it in order to mix up paint in it. Then he threw the top away, but you notice that when Steele became interested in the top, Gentrie saw that the tops were substituted. The one with the code message on it remained in the box, and one that had no message was put on the workbench.”

  Della Street said, “My gosh, Chief, it’s perfectly obvious, now that you mention it. The way you sum it up, it sounds rather damning.”

  Mason pulled the sheet of typewritten paper over to him, started studying it. Abruptly, he laughed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “That code,” he said. “It’s absolutely simple.”

  “You mean you can read the message?” Della Street asked.

  Mason nodded. “It’s absurdly simple when you approach the problem from the right angle.”

  “What’s the right angle?”

  “Notice,” Mason said, “that only the first twelve letters in the alphabet are employed. Notice that every word contains either a or b, and that a or b, whenever it appears, is either the second or the third letter from the end of the word. That, coupled with the fact that the words have either five or six letters, is absolutely determinative of the whole business. I wonder if Tragg has got it by this time.”

  Della Street said, “I don’t get it.”

  “Twelve letters,” Mason said. “Good Lord, Della, it fairly hits you in the face.”

  “It doesn’t hit me in the face,” Della Street laughed. “It doesn’t hit me anywhere. I miss it altogether.”

  Mason pushed back his chair. “I’m going out for fifteen or twenty minutes, Della. Think it over while I’m gone.”

  She said, “Ordinarily, I’m a peaceful woman. I’m not given to homicidal mania, but if you arouse my curiosity this way and then try to go out of that door without telling me what the message says, I’m very apt to assault you with a deadly weapon before you get as far as the elevator.”

  Mason said, “I don’t know what the message says.”

  “I thought you said you did.”

  “No. I said the solution was simple. Good Lord, Della, I can’t give you any more clues than that. I’ve virtually told you the whole thing now.”

  “You’ll be back in twenty minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll tell me what the message says then?”

  “Shortly afterwards, yes.”

  “But I’m supposed to get the secret of this while you’re gone?”

  “You should.”

  “What does twelve letters have to do with it?”

  “How much is twelve?” Mason asked.

  She frowned. “You mean six and six?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “You don’t mean that since two and two make four, six and six make twelve?”

  “No, not that way.”

  “You mean it’s eleven and one?”

  Mason smiled. “Try ten and two,” he said, “and you’ll be on the right track. And if you can’t get it from that, you’re going to have to buy me the drinks.”

  Mason took his hat out of the coat closet, grinned at her, and started for the elevator.

  Chapter 7

  Della Street was sitting at her desk frantically scribbling with a pencil when Mason returned, an oblong package under his arm.

  “Get it?” he asked.

  “Uh huh. That ten plus two crack did it.”

  “Got it deciphered?”

  She said, “I’ve got it figured both ways. Either the figures start with a and end with j, or they start with c and end with l.”

  “They start with c and end with l,” Mason said. “The a and b are true letters.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the a and b are always either the second or third letter from the end of the word.”

  “Well, I’ve got it worked out that way,” she said.

  “How does it check out?”

  She said, “Well, if c represents one; d represents two; e, three; f, four; g, five; h, six; i, seven; j, eight; k, nine; and l a cipher, the message breaks down into 192A19 187A8 20A11 632B13 137A22 579A21 1025B2 94B16 1055B8.”

  “I think we can safely rely on that,” Mason said.

  “But that’s a code within a code,” she said. “It still doesn’t give us the message.”

  “No,” Mason said, untying the string around the oblong package, “but I think this will.”

  “What is it?”

  “There are two books that might have been used as keys, two books that would naturally have large vocabularies, and in which the pages would be divided into an A column and a B column. They’re the Bible and the dictionary.”

  “And because Junior mentioned his dictionary, you think . . .”

  “There’s been a lot of talk about a dictionary,” Mason agreed, taking the wrappings off the package. “No one’s said very much about a Bible. Junior has his dictionary, and he isn’t able to keep his hands on it because his Aunt Rebecca is constantly borrowing it. She says that her interest in it is due to crossword puzzles, but that might not be true. In any event, the dictionary looks like a good lead.”

  “How do you know which dictionary?”

  “I happened to notice the dictionary on the table when I was out at Gentries’. It’s a Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, Fifth Edition.”

  “Then the numbers refer to pages?”

  “That’s right. For instance, the first word in the code message would be the nineteenth word from the top in the A column on page 192.”

  “And the A column would be the first one?”

  “That’s right. The one on the left.”

  Della Street said, “Gosh, Chief, I’m so excited. I’m trembling. Let’s see what it is.”

  Mason turned the pages in the dictionary, then counted down the column.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Coast,” Mason said.

  “Coast.” She frowned. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Well, let’s try the next one. What is it?”

  “The eighth word in the left-hand column on page 187.”

  Mason turned back a few pages in the dictionary, then announced, “That word’s ‘clear.’ What’s the next one?”

  Della Street’s voice showed her excitement. “Gosh, Chief, that makes it ‘Coast clear.’ Let’s see. The next one’s the eleventh word in the A column on page 20.”

  Mason made a brief search, then announced, “That’s ‘after.’ What comes next?”

  “The thirteenth word in the B column on page 632.”

  When Mason found that word, he whistled.

  “What is it?” she demanded impatiently.

  “Midnight,” Mason said. “Get it? ‘Coast clear after midnight.’ ”

  “We’ve got it. We’ve got it,” she said. “And the crime was committed after midnight. It ties up. This is the solution of the whole business.”

  “Don’t be too certain,” Mason warned. “What’s our next word?”

  “The twenty-second word in the A column on page 137.”

  “But,” Mason announced after a moment. “What’s next?”

  “The twenty-first word in the A column on page 579.”

  Mason turned pages. “Lift,” he said. “What’s next?”

  “The second word in the B column on page 1025. Gosh, Chief, hurry.”

  Mason turned the pages. Once more he gave a low whistle.

  “What is it?”

  “Telephone receiver,” Mason said.

  Della Street regarded him with startled eyes. “ ‘Coast clear after midnight but lift telephone receiver.’ And the police found fingerprints on the telephone receiver!”

  “That’s right. What’s next?”

  “The sixteenth word in the B column on page 94.”

  “Before,” Mason announced. “What’s the last word?”

  “The eighth word in the B column on page 1055.”

  Mason turned the pages and said, “That’s ‘touching.’ That gives us the message, Della. ‘Coast clear after midnight, but lift telephone receiver before touching.’ ”

  “Before touching what?” she asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Obviously not the telephone receiver. You can’t lift a telephone receiver without touching it.”

  “What are you going to do about this, Chief?”

  “Darned if I know.”

  “Going to tell Tragg?”

  “I think not—not yet.”

  “And you think this implicates Rebecca?”

  He said, “I don’t know. After all, Arthur Gentrie was the one who got the message, and apparently the only one. That tin was left there for a purpose. It contained a message. The person who left it knew it contained a message, and the person who was to have received the message knew that it contained a message. Apparently, the only one who made any attempt to open the can was Arthur Gentrie.”

  “But he was in bed at the time the shot was fired.”

  “Exactly.”

  The telephone, which was connected with Mason’s private unlisted line—a number which less than half a dozen people had—buzzed into activity. Mason picked up the receiver, said, “Let’s have it.”

  Paul Drake’s voice said. “Giving you a hot tip right off the bat, Perry.”

  “What is it?”

  “Remember I told you there were fingerprints on the telephone receiver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tragg isn’t saying anything just yet, but he’s found out whose prints they are.”

  “Whose?”

  “Arthur Gentrie’s.”

  “The old man,” Mason said triumphantly. “I was just telling Della that. . .”

  “No,” Drake interrupted. “The young chap—the one they call Junior.”

  Mason frowned. “Darn it, Paul. You kick the props out from under me just when I’m showing off to my secretary. Why the hell couldn’t you have waited a half hour with that information?”

  “Well,” Drake said cheerfully, “that’s the way with theories. You form them, and they get upset.”

  “But everything in this pointed absolutely to one logical conclusion,” Mason said. “It just doesn’t fit in to have those fingerprints belong to young Gentrie.”

  “Well, they’re his prints all right. Keep it under your hat. I got a straight tip from one of the newspaper boys. Tragg isn’t saying anything. The newspaper guys got it straight from the fingerprint man in the D.A.’s office, but had to promise not to use it until he got a release. Apparently, Tragg’s going to give the boy a little rope and see if he’ll get himself tangled up.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “keep me posted, Paul.” He dropped the receiver into place, looked at Della Street, and shook his head. “The darn thing just doesn’t fit.”

  “They’re Junior’s fingerprints?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Then the message must have been for him.”

  Mason pushed his hands down deep in his pockets. “That is what comes of sticking my neck out,” he announced.

  Chapter 8

  The strident bell summoned Perry Mason from the depths of slumber. While his drugged senses were still trying to adjust themselves, his hand automatically reached for the telephone. He said thickly, “Hello.”

  Only Della Street and Paul Drake had the number of that telephone which was by Mason’s bedside, a telephone which rang only in cases of grave emergency.

  Paul Drake was on the line. “Hello, Perry,” he said. “Sorry to bust in on your slumbers, but snap awake, because this is important.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “I can take it. What is it?”

  “Remember,” Drake said, “the evening paper mentioned that you were working on the case and that you had employed the Drake Detective Agency to make an investigation?”

  “Yes,” Mason said, switching on a light.

  “Well, she read the paper and called me up.”

  “Who did?”

  “I’m coming to that in a minute. I want to make certain you’re awake before I give you this.”

  Mason said impatiently, “I’m awake all right. I’ve got the light on. What is it?”

  “Mrs. Sarah Perlin, Hocksley’s housekeeper, telephoned the office and said that if she could talk with Mr. Mason personally, she’d make a complete confession. She wanted to know where she could reach you. What do I do?”

  “A complete confession?” Mason asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Waiting on one of the other trunk lines.”

  “Trace the call?” Mason asked.

  “Yes. It’s from a public pay station. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d get in touch with you and let you be the goat. If we don’t relay the information on to the police and try to hold her there until a radio car can get on the job, we’re sticking our necks out. But, on the other hand . . .”

  “Tell her to call this number,” Mason said. “Tell her she can talk with me here.”

  “And how about the police?”

  “Forget ’em.”

  “Okay,” Drake said, “I’m stalling her along on the other line. Hold the phone, Perry, until I see if she’s still on the line.”

  Mason held the telephone, hearing only the slight buzzing sound of the wire. Then he heard Drake’s voice once more. “Okay, Perry, she says she’ll call you in twenty minutes. She thinks I was having the call traced and notifying the police. She says she’ll go to another pay station. She says if I’ve notified the police, it won’t do a bit of good, that you’re the only one she’ll talk with.”

  “Said she’d call in about twenty minutes?” Mason asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, Paul. What are you doing up at the office this time of night?”

  “No rest for the wicked,” Drake said wearily. “A lot of stuff has been coming in. I’m up here sifting the reports, and juggling the men around on new assignments. I was just ready to quit.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About one o’clock.”

  “How did that woman sound on the telephone, Paul?”

  “She didn’t seem particularly excited. She has a good speaking voice.”

  “But she said she was going to make a confession?”

  “That’s right. I guess that’ll crack the whole case. The way the police figured it out, there was only one shot. Two people had disappeared. That meant Hocksley had killed his housekeeper, removed the body, and was in hiding, or that she had killed him.”

  Mason said, “In that latter event, I think there was an accomplice. She didn’t give you any inkling of who it was, did she?”

  “No, not a thing. Just said that if she could talk with Mr. Mason personally, she’d make a complete confession. Otherwise, there was no dice.”

  “Better stick around,” Mason said, “in case I need you.”

  “For how long?”

  “Oh, until I tell you to quit.”

  Drake said, “Okay, there’s a couch here in the office. I’ll bed down on that, and the night operator will call me in case you phone in.”

  “Hate to bust up your sleep,” Mason apologized.

  “Oh, it’s all right. I’m used to that.”

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

  He hung up the telephone, stretched, yawned, got out of bed, closed the windows in the room, dressed, and was smoking a cigarette when his telephone rang.

  Mason picked up the receiver, said, “This is Perry Mason talking,” and heard a low voice saying in a tone of calm finality, “This is Mrs. Perlin. It’s all over. I’ve decided to confess.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Perlin.”