Halder, his voice easy and informal once more, said, “You must be psychic, Mr. Mason, or else you’ve been a district attorney in a relatively small community.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “I’m pretty busy, but Miss Street and I can get up there all right. Now, let’s see. I’ll catch a plane to San Francisco and then—”

  “Our plane service leaves something to be desired.” Halder said.

  “That’s all right,” Mason told him. “I’m too busy to bother with waiting for scheduled planes. Tell you what I’ll do, Halder. I’ll get up to San Francisco or perhaps to Sacramento, then I’ll charter a plane. You have a landing field at Oroville?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “All right,” Mason said. “I’ll be on that landing field at five-thirty right on the dot.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to break your neck trying to get here at a certain specified time,” Halder said. “I want to talk with you, and of course I’d like to talk with you as soon as possible, but—”

  “That’s all right,” Mason said. “You’re a busy man. You have things to do. I’m a busy man. I have things to do. We may just as well make a definite appointment so that you’ll know when to expect me and I’ll know that when I arrive there won’t be any time lost in getting together. Will five-thirty be all right?”

  “That will be fine,” Halder said, and then added apologetically, “I dislike very much to bother a man who is as busy as you are and whose time is as valuable. After all, it’s probably only relatively a minor matter—that is, I mean you certainly have an explanation, but—well, I’ve been under considerable pressure and—”

  “I understand,” Mason said cordially. “Think nothing of it, Halder. I’m glad to do it. Miss Street and I will be there at five-thirty.”

  Mason hung up the telephone and grinned at Della Street.

  “Chief,” she said, “you certainly gave up without a struggle on that one.”

  Mason said, “Let’s be practical, Della.”

  “Is that being practical?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t get it.”

  Mason said, “Things are pretty hot for us at the moment. I’d like to avoid being questioned as long as possible.”

  “Well,” she said.

  “And,” Mason told her, “that means I don’t want to be available for the local press, the local police or the local district attorney. I want a little time to correlate my thoughts and, above all, I want a little time for some of the seed we have planted to start sprouting. I want to find out what Paul Drake can uncover.”

  “And so,” she said, “you walk right into the arms of the district attorney up at Butte County where you certainly don’t dare to answer certain questions without putting your neck in a noose.”

  “The more questions I answer right now the more I ‘m apt to get my neck in a noose,” Mason said. “But just stop to think of the practical realities, and the beauty of this situation will occur to you, Della.

  “In the first place we can leave immediately and in a rush. We don’t have time to answer questions asked by anybody. We’re hurrying to catch a plane in order to keep an appointment with the district attorney of Butte County. We get a lot of publicity which is bound to be favorable because it means that as soon as we learned the district attorney wanted to question us we dropped everything and dashed up to his county without forcing him to resort to any last desperate measures.

  “We fix a definite time of arrival which is such that we can be comfortably hurried. We’re away from the office. We don’t need to let anyone know where we are. They can’t call it flight because we’re on our way to confer with the authorities in Butte County at their request.

  “Moreover, Della, because we have a definite time of arrival, and because the Butte County papers are hungry for news, we go up and make news. Since we have fixed a definite time of arrival, the press can be there with photographers.”

  “I can see the beauty of all that,” Della Street said. “It’s a wonderful respite for five or six hours. But what happens when we arrive in Butte County?”

  “That,” Mason said, “is a question I wish I could answer.”

  “Are you going to answer questions as to just what we did in that house in Paradise?”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “How are you going to avoid answering them?”

  “I wish I knew,” Mason told her. “Come on, Della, get started. I have to take a few minutes to look up some law, and then we’ll be on our way. Get us plane reservations while I do some quick research.”

  Chapter 6

  The plane they had chartered at Sacramento passed the Marysville buttes on the left and the peculiar, distinctive mountain formation back of Oroville began to show plainly. Table mountains rose nearly a thousand feet above the surrounding country, level as a floor on top. There some huge prehistoric lava flow had covered the whole country, then gradually, as small crevices had offered drainage, the process of interminable erosion had chiseled small cracks into valleys. Now the level of the whole surrounding country had been eroded hundreds of feet, leaving those places where the lava cap had protected the undersoil as veritable table mountains.

  Della Street looked at her wrist watch. “We’ll make it right on the nose,” she said.

  Mason nodded.

  “And we haven’t been very badly hurried at that.”

  “And,” Mason pointed out, “we haven’t been interrogated. So far no one has found out just where we are.”

  “Will the Los Angeles press intimate that you have run away to avoid questioning?” she asked.

  “No. They’ll find out we’re headed for Oroville. They’ll ask the local reporters to cover the story and give it to the wire services. They’ll state that we are presently unavailable but be forced to explain we are cooperating with the officials up north.”

  The plane dipped forward and started losing altitude.

  “Pretty quick,” Della said, “you’re going to have to devise a way of avoiding answers.”

  Mason nodded.

  “How are you going to do it?”

  “I can’t tell until I hear the questions.”

  “Well,” she said, “you got a little sleep on the plane anyway.”

  “How did you do, Della?”

  “Pretty fair, but I’m too worried to sleep much.”

  Mason said, “Let them interrogate me first. If they should try to interrogate you separately, tell them that because you’re my secretary you feel that all questions should first be answered by me, that you will answer questions covering subjects on which I have answered questions, but that you don’t want to be placed in the position of answering questions on subjects that I may have chosen to consider as privileged. And inasmuch as you’re not an attorney and therefore don’t understand the legal distinctions you prefer to have me make the decisions.”

  “How much of what we did, how much of what we know, what we said and what was told us is privileged?” she asked.

  Mason made a little gesture with his shoulders, took a notebook from his pocket. “That, of course, is a question.

  “The authorities aren’t uniform on the subject. In the case of Gallagher versus Williamson, 23 Cal. 331, it was held generally that statements made by a client in the presence of other persons are not privileged and the attorney is bound to disclose them. Later on, in the case of People versus Rittenhouse, 56 C.A. 541, it was held that a third person who was not within the classification of a confidential relation and who overheard communications between an attorney and a client could disclose what he had heard. Then again, in People versus White, 102 C.A. 647, it was held that communications between an attorney and his clients in the presence of third persons were not privileged communications. However, there was a question in that case as to whether the communications were intended to be of a confidential nature. The court held generally that an attorney could be made to testify as to conversations which he had with the defendants in the presence of third persons.

  “A much later case was that of People versus Hall 55 C.A. 2d, 343, wherein it was held that communications between an attorney and client in the presence of a third person were not privileged. I’ve been kicking myself for letting Sara Ansel sit in on that conversation.”

  “But, Chief, you couldn’t have been expected to anticipate any development such as this.”

  “Why not?” Mason asked. “An attorney is supposed to anticipate not only the things that may happen but the things that can happen. It’s not at all unreasonable that two women are going to have a falling-out, and when there’s no real reason for a third person to be present an attorney shouldn’t—”

  “But, good Lord, Chief, she had to do all the talking. Myrna Davenport never would have told you the story.”

  Mason said, “She could speak English. She didn’t need an interpreter. Of course, Sara Ansel stepped into the dominant role.”

  The plane skimmed over the city of Oroville, flying low so that it was possible to see the big, roomy houses occupying strategic positions under towering shade trees.

  “What beautiful trees,” Della Street said. “You can see how large they are, flying over them like this.”

  “It gets hot here in the summer,” Mason said. “Nature compensates for it by making it a paradise for shade trees. Fig trees grow to enormous heights and give dense shade. Well, here we are, Della. Brace yourself for a barrage.”

  The plane banked sharply, circled into a landing, and taxied up to the airport.

  A group of men came hurrying toward the plane. In the vanguard were newspaper photographers with cameras and flashlights held in readiness. Behind them, moving at a more dignified pace but nevertheless hurrying, was a group of purposeful men.

  Alighting from the plane, Mason and Della Street were most considerate in their posing so as to give the photographers plenty of coverage.

  Newspaper reporters produced folded newsprint and pencils, ready to report the interview.

  One of the reporters hustled forward. “May I have your name please?” he asked.

  “Perry Mason,” Mason said, smiling.

  “Your full name?”

  “Perry Mason.”

  “And you?” he asked, turning to Della Street.

  “Miss Della Street.”

  “You’re Mr. Mason’s confidential secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” the reporter said, and shook hands with Mason.

  “Quite all right,” Mason said, and then suddenly the smile froze momentarily on his face as he realized that the reporter had slipped a piece of folded paper into his hand. Mason hastily shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and smiled at the youngish, rather fleshy individual who pushed his way forward.

  “Mr. Halder?” Mason asked.

  “That’s right. I ‘m the district attorney, and this is the sheriff of the county. I also have one of my deputies present. I ‘d like to drive at once to my office if you don’t mind, Mr.Mason.”

  “I’m glad to do anything I can to accommodate,” Mason said.

  “We have a county car here and we’ll get you to the office and terminate the interview just as rapidly as possible.”

  Mason said, “It’s all right. My pilot is authorized to do instrument flying so he tells me we can go back any time tonight.”

  “I’m sorry that it was necessary for you to go to the expense of chartering a plane, Mr. Mason, but—well, there wasn’t much I could do about it. We try to keep the expenses of administering the office down to a minimum.”

  “I can readily understand,” Mason said breezily. “Think nothing of it.”

  Halder turned to the newspaper reporters. “Now I ‘m sorry to disappoint you boys, but I don’t want you to stand here and throw questions at Mr. Mason. I’d like to conduct the inquiry in my own way. After that I’ll issue a statement to the press, or the reporters can be called in—unless Mr. Mason has some objection.”

  “I never have any objection to the press,” Mason said, smiling genially. “I share all of my information with them—except, of course, that which is confidential or which for strategic reasons I feel cannot be divulged.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Halder said, “and we certainly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Mason. I can’t begin to tell you how much we appreciate it. Now if you and Miss Street will just get right in the car. And please, boys, no questions until after the interview at my office.”

  Mason said, “Just a minute. I may have a wire I want to send.”

  He pulled a billfold from his breast pocket, opened it, studied the interior for a moment, then dropped his right hand to his side pocket, brought out the folded slip of paper the newspaper reporter had placed in his hand, and managed to spread that slip over the interior of the billfold so that he could read the message which had been typed on the paper. It read: I am Pete Ingram, reporter for The Oroville Mercury. Mabel Norge, secretary to Ed Davenport, is missing. I’ve been unable to find her all day. No one knows where she is. Yesterday afternoon she drew out nearly all the money in Davenport’s account in the Paradise bank. Don’t ask me how I know because it’s a confidential tip. I’m slipping this to you because I’m hoping the information may be of some value to you. You can reciprocate by giving me a break.

  Mason folded the billfold, tucking the message inside, put it back in his pocket, and looked over the heads of the little group of men until he encountered the questioning eyes of Pete Ingram.

  Mason gave an all but imperceptible nod.

  “Well, if you want to send a telegram,” Halder said, “we can—”

  “Oh, I guess it can wait,” Mason told him. “After all, we won’t be here very long I take it.”

  “I hope not,” Halder said fervently.

  Mason and Della Street entered the automobile. The sheriff sat up front with Halder, who did the driving. The deputy district attorney, whose name was Oscar Glencoe, an older man than Halder, sat quietly, uncommunicative, on the left rear seat. Della Street occupied the center, and Mason sat on the right.

  The county car roared into speed and Halder drove directly to the courthouse.

  “If you don’t mind,” he told Mason, “we’ll hold the interview in the sheriff’s private office.”

  “Anyplace suits me,” Mason said cheerfully.

  They disembarked and the sheriff led the way into his private office where chairs had been carefully arranged around the desk. Mason, looking the place over, felt certain that there was a concealed microphone and a tape recorder.

  “Well, sit down,” the sheriff invited. “Jon, do you want to sit there at the desk and ask the questions?”

  “Thank you,” Jonathan Halder said and seated himself in the swivel chair at the desk.

  The others seated themselves and Halder carefully waited for the last noise of the scraping chairs before asking the first question—further indication that the interview was being recorded.

  Halder cleared his throat, took a folded document from his pocket, spread it on the table in front of him, said, “Mr. Mason, you and your secretary, Miss Street, were at Paradise yesterday evening.”

  “Let’s see,” Mason said, thinking. “Was it only yesterday? I guess that’s right, Counselor. So much has been happening it seems as though it must have been the day before. No, I guess it was yesterday. That was the twelfth—Monday. That’s right.”

  “And you entered the house of Edward Davenport on Crestview Drive?”

  “Well, now,” Mason said, smiling affably, “I notice you’re reading those questions, Mr. Halder. I take it then that this is somewhat in the nature of a formal interrogation.”

  “Does that make any difference?” Halder asked pleasantly.

  “Oh, a lot of difference,” Mason said. “If we’re just chatting informally that’s one thing, but if you’re asking formal questions from a list which you have carefully prepared I’ll have to be careful in thinking of my answers.”

  “Why?” Halder asked, instantly suspicious. “Isn’t the truth the same in any event?”

  “Why certainly,” Mason told him, “but take, for instance, this last question of yours. You asked me if I entered the house of Edward Davenport.”

  “And that, of course, can be answered yes or no,” Halder said, his manner watchful.

  “No,” Mason said. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s put it this way. If this is going to be a formal interview, I’ll have to be very careful to make my statements one hundred per cent accurate.”

  “Well, that’s what I want, and I assume that’s what you want too.”

  “Therefore,” Mason said, “I would have to state that I entered a house which belonged to Mrs. Edward Davenport.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Halder said. “That house was where Ed Davenport was carrying on his business and—”

  “That’s just the point,” Mason interrupted. “That’s the point I’m trying to make.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “Don’t you see? If you were talking informally and asked me if I entered Ed Davenport’s place up there why I’d say casually and offhand, ‘Sure I did,’ but if this is a formal interview and you ask me if I entered the house belonging to Ed Davenport then I have to stop and think. I have a lot of things to take into consideration. I have to say to myself, ‘Now I am representing Myrna Davenport, who is the widow of Edward Davenport. If the house was community property she actually gained complete title to it at the moment Ed Davenport died. If the house was separate property but a will left everything to Myrna Davenport then my client acquired title instantly upon Ed Davenport’s death, subject only to probate administration. Therefore if I should say in a formal interview that I had entered a house belonging to Ed Davenport, it might be considered as an admission I knew about a will but doubted the validity of the will or that I was willing to concede as Mrs. Davenport’s attorney that it was not community property. See my point. Counselor?”