“Right on the end of the limb,” Mason said.

  The bedroom door opened. Marcia Whittaker walked directly across to Perry Mason, holding a manila envelope in her hand. When she got within two steps of the lawyer, she slid the manila envelope behind her back, and held it across the curve of her hips.

  Mason said sharply, “Don’t be like that!”

  “I want to know,” she said, “exactly what I’m going to get.”

  “A first-degree murder rap if you don’t watch your step,” he warned.

  “You’ll promise me that Alden Leeds will stand back of me, that. . .”

  “I promise you nothing.” Mason said. “I’ve gone too damn far already. Who do you think you are, to stand up there and ask me, will I do this and will I do that? You’re standing on a red-hot spot.” Mason pointed dramatically to the door. “Any minute the law may walk in through that door. If they find those papers on you, it means the gas chamber. And you want to know what I’m going to do for you! For one thing, I’m going to take those papers off your hands. That’s enough—too damn much.”

  She whipped the envelope from behind her back, and literally pushed it into his hands.

  Without looking at it, Mason dropped it into his inside coat pocket. “I’m not your lawyer,” he said. “I’m Alden Leeds’ lawyer. To the extent that you play ball with him, I’ll play ball with you. Try to slip anything over on him, and I’ll give you the works. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Listen,” Mason went on, “John Milicant was being shadowed. Private detectives kept a record of everyone who went to the sixth floor of that apartment. There’s an elevator indicator over the elevator shaft. There are two other apartments on the sixth floor. At least one of them is vacant. Everyone who took the elevator up to the sixth floor was clocked in and clocked out.”

  “Who hired them?” she asked.

  “I did,” Mason said.

  “Then can’t you. . . ”

  “Not a chance in the world,” Mason told her, “and I don’t even dare to try. There were two men and two women on the job working in relays. You try to hush up anything like that, and you wind up in a lot hotter water than when you started.”

  “But what can I do?” she asked.

  Mason said, “The apartment door was closed when you went in?”

  “Yes, but I had a key to it.”

  “There’s a spring lock on the door?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, “Give me your key.”

  She crossed to the table where she had tossed her purse, opened it, took out a key and handed it to him. He dropped it in his pocket. “Forget that you ever had this,” he told her. “Now, what did you do when you came out? Did you pull the door shut?”

  “No. I left it part way open—just an inch or two.”

  “Why?”

  “I was afraid that when the blow-off came, they might claim I’d been the last one in—and that I had a key. By leaving the door slightly ajar—someone else might come to see Louie, and push the door open, and find him, and be on a spot that would let me out.”

  Mason said, “You’re a cold-blooded little devil, aren’t you?”

  “Christ, no!” she said. “I’ve always been too much the other way, but I’ve learned to think for myself in a jam. You would too, if you had them hand you the deals they’ve handed me.”

  Mason studied her with hard, watchful eyes. “You were wearing gloves?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Mason nodded toward the telephone. “Call the police. Tell them you had a date with Louie Conway at his apartment, that he was to wait for you there, that you pounded and hammered on the door, and he didn’t answer, that you know it isn’t a stand-up because he was going to marry you, and you were going away together.”

  “If I just tell them that,” she said, “they’ll think I’m crazy.”

  Mason said, “That’s what you want. Act crazy. Be hysterical over the telephone. Ask them to please send someone out to the apartment to make sure he’s all right. Tell them you’ve been trying to sleep, and couldn’t, that you knew he was afraid of something, that he’d been gambling, and he was afraid men were going to kidnap him. And don’t, under any circumstances, mention the name of Milicant.”

  “But that won’t do any good,” she said.

  “Don’t you see?” Mason told her. “They’ll make a record of that call and of your name and address. They’ll hand you a line and tell you they’ll have a radio car drop by for an inspection, that if you don’t hear from them, it’ll be all right.”

  “And they won’t go?”

  “Of course not. They can’t go around hammering on the apartment doors of all the men in the city who have stood up trollops on dates. In the morning when the thing breaks, that call will get you as much in the clear as you can get. With that call, they’ll never think of trying to check up on the airports.”

  Her tear-reddened eyes blinked as she digested the lawyer’s advice.

  “Then,” Mason went on, “when the law does come, you’ll have plenty of excuse for having had a sleepless night and putting on the weep act. Remember, you were to be married. The man’s sister has been trying to break up the match.”

  “Should I bring her in?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Mason said. “All the way. Don’t forget, Marcia, the records show you were in the apartment for eleven minutes.

  “Get out of those clothes. Get into pajamas and litter this apartment with cigarette stubs. Have a drink of whiskey and leave the whiskey bottle and the glass out where the officers can find’em. See that there are plenty of half-burnt cigarettes in the bedroom—not stubs, mind you, that would make you seem too calm. You want to register as having had one cigarette after another, with only a puff or two from each. Don’t have any make-up on your face. Let your hair string down. Lie in bed long enough and turn around often enough to get the sheets all rumpled. Go into the kitchen, mix salt into a glassful of water. Sprinkle the salt water on the pillow so it’ll be damp to the touch, but don’t overdo it.

  “Can you go through with it?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Mason took Della Street’s arm.

  Marcia Whittaker stood at the head of the stairs, sobbing silently as she waited for the front door to slam before switching out the light.

  On the cold pavement in front of the house, with the first streaks of dawn showing in the east, Della Street turned anxious eyes to Perry Mason. “Chief,” she asked, “aren’t we doing a lot for Alden Leeds?”

  Mason grinned down at her. “I’ll say we are. Getting cold feet, Della?”

  She snuggled her arm in his. “Be your age, you big oaf.”

  They drove a dozen blocks before Mason found an all-night restaurant with a public telephone. He parked the car, went into the restaurant, and called Paul Drake’s office. When he heard the detective’s voice on the line, he said, “Okay, Paul. You can go home now,” and hung up.

  Chapter 8

  Phyllis Leeds sat across from Mason in the big leather chair, her eyes darkened by apprehension and fear of what was to follow.

  Mason said, “There’s no way of breaking it gently, Miss Leeds, so brace yourself.”

  “About Uncle Alden?” she asked.

  “Not directly,” Mason said. “It’s about John Milicant. He was found in his apartment about an hour ago by a maid. He’d been murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  Mason nodded. “A carving knife stuck in the back, a little above the left shoulder. The blade forward and downward.”

  “Good Heavens!” she exclaimed.

  “Paul Drake had operatives on the job all last night,” Mason went on. “We know everyone who entered the apartment house where Milicant had his apartment—everyone, that is, that went to the sixth floor. Among those persons was a Marcia Whittaker, whom John Milicant intended to marry, and a man who answers the description of your Uncle Alden.”

  “Uncle Alden!” she exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”

  Mason said, “So far we’re working on incomplete data. I’m telling you what we have.”

  “But there’s some mistake. It couldn’t have been Uncle Alden.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “we’ll assume that it wasn’t your Uncle Alden.”

  “The way you say it sounds as though you thought it was he.”

  Mason said quietly, “I think it was,” and then went on, “The last person to enter that apartment was Marcia Whittaker. She says she found the apartment locked, that she pounded on the door and got no answer. She waited around in the corridor for four or five minutes, calling John’s name and tapping on the door. When he didn’t answer, she finally left. She went back to her own flat, and, as I get the story, called police headquarters around five o’clock this morning, telling them she thought something was wrong and asking them to make an investigation. They made a very routine investigation. They keep the names of persons injured in automobile accidents and persons taken to the emergency hospitals. They checked through those lists and found no record of a Louie Conway—which was the name under which Marcia knew John Milicant. They naturally reached the conclusion that it was a stand-up and paid no further attention to it.”

  “Do you mean that John Milicant was Louie Conway. . . the one Uncle Alden made the check to? Did. . . ”

  As her voice trailed off into silence, Mason said, “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe it. . . .Are you certain?”

  “Marcia Whittaker says he was, and it looks like it. Have you heard anything from Ned Barkler?”

  “No. He packed up and left, bag and baggage.”

  “He told me he was going,” Mason said. “Tell me, do you know anything at all about a Bill Hogarty?”

  She frowned. “Bill Hogarty,” she repeated.

  “Yes,” Mason said, watching her closely.

  “I’ve heard the name,” she said, after a while. “I think I heard Ned Barkler and Uncle Alden talking about him once.”

  “Do you know what was said?”

  “No. I remember now. They were talking in low tones when I came into the room. Barkler had his back turned to me. I heard him say, ‘You got Hogarty’s. . . ’ and then Uncle Alden frowned at him. He looked up and saw me, and quit talking.”

  “Do you know how long ago that was?”

  “No, I don’t. To tell you the truth, it didn’t impress me much at the time. I thought . . . ” She broke off and laughed nervously. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Mason, I thought I’d interrupted a smutty story. Have you told Emily? We must notify her.”

  Mason shook his head. “The police haven’t been able to locate her.”

  “But where is she?” Phyllis Leeds asked.

  “That,” Mason said, “is what the police are interested in right now. She was at her brother’s apartment about six o’clock last night.”

  “You mean the Conway apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I can’t believe she knew that John was Conway.”

  “I don’t think she knew it,” Mason said, “—until yesterday afternoon. But when she found it out, she knew enough about Conway to know where to find him.”

  “How did she find out?”

  “I told her.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Putting two and two together,” Mason said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you with details or worry you. Look here, Miss Leeds. I have some information of the greatest value to your Uncle Alden. If he gets in touch with you, tell him that. Tell him to talk with me before he does a single thing or makes any statement to anyone. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “All right,” Mason said. “Go on home, sit tight, and don’t worry. I’m not going to burden you with a lot of details. I’m doing everything I can do—but I’m working in the dark.”

  She rose obediently. “My head’s spinning like a top,” she said. “Why should Uncle Alden have given John Milicant twenty thousand dollars? Why should he have gone to see him? Why should . . . ”

  “Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “Things will move fast from now on. Answers will be uncovered faster than you can think up questions. Go home, sit tight, and see that your Uncle Alden gets in touch with me. And if the police question you, make Ned Barkler’s departure seem as casual as possible.”

  She walked slowly toward the door, then turned to flash him a quick smile. “With you on the job, I feel that I don’t have to worry.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Mason told her. “I’ll be on the job pretty much from now on.”

  Drake entered the office less than ten minutes after Phyllis Leeds had departed. “Perry,” he asked suspiciously, “why did you want me to keep on the job last night and this morning and see if there were any unusual activities at Milicant’s apartment?”

  Mason met the detective’s stare steadily. “Want me to tell you, Paul?” he asked.

  “No,” Drake said hastily. “Lord knows why I asked that question in the first place. It’s just been sticking in my mind, that’s all.”

  “Better get it out of your mind,” Mason said. “What else do you know?”

  “The police figure robbery was one of the motives for Milicant’s murder. He always carried a wallet, and it was usually well filled. The wallet is gone. Someone certainly went through the apartment looking for something they may or may not have found. The place is a wreck.”

  “Anything else?” Mason asked. “How about time of death? Have they fixed that?”

  “Tentatively at around ten-thirty, somewhere between ten and ten-forty-five.”

  Mason frowned. “Why the exactness?” he asked. “Good Lord, Paul, I could cite you cases by the dozen where the autopsy surgeons have missed the time of death by from twelve to twenty-four hours. Look at the New York case where the man killed the model.”

  “I know,” Drake agreed, “but that’s where they figure on body temperature, rigor mortis, and things like that. This case is different. There’s no question on earth as to when he ate his dinner. Serle says they were discussing a business deal, and that he ordered up the dinner but can’t remember what time it was. He thinks it was around eight-thirty, and that he didn’t leave until around nine. But our men have clocked him in and clocked him out. What’s more, the waiter over at the restaurant remembers the occasion perfectly. The dinner was delivered at eight-ten. It consisted of broiled lamb chops, green peas, and baked potato. Once the autopsy surgeon knows when a meal was eaten, if death occurs before the food has left the stomach, he can fix the time of death very accurately.”

  Mason hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor, his head thrust forward, eyes moodily contemplating the carpet. “That,” he said, “dumps it right in Marcia Whittaker’s lap.”

  Drake nodded.

  “Or,” Mason added, “on the shoulders of the old man.”

  Drake said, “By the way, Perry, there’s no question about the identity of the old man. The police dug up a photograph of Leeds and showed it to my operatives. They identify it as being the photograph of the man who went up to that apartment.”

  Drake fed a couple of sticks of chewing gum into his mouth. The expression of his face remained calmly tranquil, but his jaw moved with nervous rapidity. After a moment, he said, “Milicant didn’t have diabetes, did he, Perry?”

  “Not that I know of. I may be able to find out. Why?”

  “A peculiar condition of the right foot. Four of the toes had been amputated. The autopsy surgeon figures it was due to gangrene, but found no present indication of a diabetic condition.”

  Mason stared thoughtfully at Drake. “He walked with a slight limp,” he said. “It never occurred to me to find out the reason.”

  Without changing the rhythm of his rapid gum-chewing, the detective nodded.

  “You’re making a search for Leeds?”

  “Yes. We’re checking on the airplanes—particularly those that went north.”

  Mason said, “I want to talk with Serle.”

  “Fat chance you’ll stand,” Drake said gloomily. “They’ve nailed him for conducting a lottery and selling lottery tickets. The police were looking for him at the very moment he was having dinner with Milicant.”

  “What was the idea of the conference with Milicant? Do you know, Paul?”

  “Apparently in regard to raising bail. After he left Milicant’s apartment, he told friends that he’d arranged to get cash bail and was going to surrender, that he could beat the rap hands down.”

  “Then what happened?” Mason asked, interested.

  “He hung around a pool room for two or three hours, then put through a call to Conway.”

  “What time was that call?” Mason interrupted to ask.

  “That’s just it,” Drake said. “We can’t get the exact time. I’ve had men working on it, and so have the police.”

  “The police must be working fast,” Mason said.

  “You bet they’re working fast,” Drake agreed. “My man got a hot lead, and beat the police to it by only ten minutes.”

  “What did he find out, Paul?”

  “Well, there are a couple of fellows who heard the conversation. One of them heard some of it, and another guy heard nearly all of it. Serle had told them he was supposed to call Conway around ten-thirty. He put through the call, and asked if everything was okay. Conway evidently told him it was. They talked for two or three minutes, and then Serle hung up. He played a game of pool for about ten minutes, then he called police headquarters, wanted to know what the hell they meant by raiding his joint, said his business was just as legal as any of the banknight schemes, and that he was going to prove it. He said he was coming up and surrender and make bail, and left right after that.

  “Now, you can figure what that means. He had left Conway’s apartment shortly after eight o’clock. Evidently Conway had agreed to raise bail for him. But the joker was that Conway didn’t have the dough. He probably told Serle he knew where he could raise the money.