“He did what?” Mason asked.

  “Deposited over seventy-five thousand dollars. There’s something over sixty thousand dollars in the account right now in the form of cash. Mind you, Perry, I’m doing a lot of guessing on this business; naturally, the bank isn’t putting out any official information.”

  “You’re all wet,” Mason told him. “Whoever gave you the information has been making some bum guesses.”

  “Well, that’s the way I figured it at first,” Drake admitted, “but my information isn’t so much a matter of guesswork as you might suppose. Now, here’s my idea: You’re representing his widow. She’s entitled to letters of administration, if there isn’t a will, or to be executrix if there is—unless, of course, the will specifically disinherits her. But, even so, some of this is community property. Now, suppose you go down to the bank, have a talk with them, put your cards on the table, and see if you can’t get the information.”

  Mason said slowly, “They probably wouldn’t turn loose with anything until after she’d actually been appointed.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Drake said. “That’s a nice, juicy account. They won’t want to be too technical and antagonize the person who’s going to inherit it, once they’re satisfied that she is going to inherit it.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “it’s worth a try, anyway. I—”

  The telephone on Della Street’s desk rang. She picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then turned to Perry Mason and said, “Don’t let me interrupt, Chief, but Karl Helmold’s on the line. He’s so excited he can hardly talk. He wants to see you right away.”

  Mason nodded, picked up his desk phone and said, “All right, Karl. What is it?”

  “Ja! Ja! Quick!” Helmold said explosively, and hung up the receiver.

  Mason dropped his phone back into position, grinned across at the detective, and said, “Most cases hit you an awful wallop right in between the eyes with a mess of complicated circumstances which gradually simplify themselves when you start unraveling them. This case starts out with a lame canary and goes on from there in a big way. Every time we find a new thread, it makes the snarl that much worse.”

  Drake nodded. “One other thing, Perry: You could drop into the Doran Building and talk with George Wray, the surviving partner. Even if you can’t get anywhere with the bank, you can certainly get places with Wray, because he’ll have to account to the widow, and, as her attorney, you could make things rather disagreeable for him if you wanted to. You see, that’s a partnership, and, as I understand it, on the death of one partner the surviving partner has to wind up the business. Is that right?”

  Mason nodded, picked up his hat, grinned at Della Street and said, “I’m on my way, Della. That’s what comes of hiring a high-class private detective to do the leg work. He drifts into the office with a lot of routine reports and sends me running errands around the city. I m going to get shaved, then if anything urgent comes up and you want me, I’ll either be at Prescott & Wray’s offices in the Doran Building, or down at the Second Fidelity Savings & Loan. Come on, Paul, and walk as far as the elevator with me. There are a couple of questions I want to ask you. How about the gun the police found? Was it the weapon with which the murder was committed?”

  “I’ll say it was. Not only that, but they’ve tied it up to Driscoll by a manufacturer’s number and a sales record. All three of the fatal bullets were discharged from that gun, and at close range. There were powder bums on the clothing and skin.”

  “What time did death occur?” Mason asked, holding the door open for the detective.

  “The autopsy surgeon isn’t too definite,” Drake said. “You know how it is, Perry. They used to probe around in a guy’s digestive apparatus, talk about rigor mortis, and give you a time as though they’d been standing by the side of the victim, holding a stop watch, when he croaked. Then that Thelma Todd case, and the Rattlesnake Murder case, and a couple of others hit them right where they lived, and they’ve been so cagey ever since they won’t fix a definite time.”

  “I know,” Mason told him, ringing for the elevator. “What’s the best they can do in this case?”

  “Between noon and two-thirty, and that’s as far as they’ll go.”

  “My God!” Mason exclaimed, “they found the body before five o’clock, didn’t they?”

  “Something like that, but between noon and two-thirty is the best you can get them to do. That suits the police all right, because it brings the earliest time limit just within the time Jimmy Driscoll was seen in the house with the gun.”

  Mason rang again mechanically for the elevator. His eyes were slitted in thought. “Wouldn’t it,” he said, “be a funny trick for Rita to play on her sister if—”

  The elevator cage slid smoothly into position. The door glided back and Mason said, “Okay, Paul, keep working on those other angles. Get in touch with me if you find out anything.”

  He was still frowning in thoughtful contemplation as he entered Helmold’s pet store. “Well, what is it?” he asked of the excited proprietor.

  “They took it, Herr Counselor. They took it!” Helmold said excitedly.

  “You mean the canary?”

  “Ja! Ja! They came, the police, with many questions, and they took the canary.”

  “Did they ask you about his being lame?”

  “Not asked. But they looked at his feet.”

  “Did they seem to know anything about canaries?”

  “Not them, but they talk of taking him to an expert.”

  Mason nodded and said, “Well, don’t let it bother you, Karl. It’s just one of those things. I tried to get that canary out of the way, but I couldn’t do anything without involving you, and I didn’t want to do that.”

  “It is evidence?” Helmold asked.

  Mason nodded and said, “They think it is, anyway. All right, Karl. Thanks a lot for telling me.”

  Mason dropped in at his barber shop and was shaved. Then he called a cab, went to the Doran Building, saw from the directory Prescott & Wray were in 382, took the elevator to the third floor, walked down the corridor to the inside offices, pushed open the entrance door, and said to a red-headed girl who surveyed him with snappy blue eyes, “I’m Perry Mason. I want to see George Wray. Tell him it’s important.”

  He watched her idly while her deft fingers flipped over a telephone key, and heard her transmit the message. She nodded toward a door marked “Private,” and said, “Mr. Wray said for you to come right in.”

  Before Mason had reached the door, it was pushed open by a chunky man of forty, who clamped Mason’s outstretched hand in a cordial grip and said, “Mr. Mason! This indeed is a pleasure! I’ve heard a lot about you, read a lot in the papers, but hardly expected to be so fortunate as to meet you in the flesh. Come in! Come right in! Come in and sit down.”

  Mason turned to say over his shoulder to the red head at the desk, “If anyone should call, asking for Mr. Mason, will you see that I’m connected?”

  Her eyes showed interest as she looked him over in frank appraisal. “Sure,” she said.

  Mason allowed Wray to pilot him to a chair. The automatic door check swung the door firmly shut.

  “Well, well, I’m glad to see you,” Wray said, assuming the conversational aggressive at once. “I’d thought some of coming to your office; but I realized how busy you were, and didn’t want to intrude on you. This is a most unfortunate occurrence! Doubly unfortunate because Walter’s wife is involved. I can’t understand how the police could suspect her of anything like that.”

  “You don’t?” Mason asked.

  Wray shook his head vehemently. “Indeed not,” he said with booming finality. “I’ve known her for eight or nine months. She’s every inch a lady.”

  “You knew her before the marriage then?”

  “Yes, I met her almost as soon as Walter did. They’ve been married about six months, going on to seven, I think.”

  “It was a brief courtship?”

  Wray nodded and became suddenly noncommittal, his booming, genial manner obscured by a screen of cold, watchful caution.

  Mason said, “Of course, under the circumstances, routine matters of administration will be delayed, but sooner or later, Mrs. Prescott will be entitled to some share of the estate, how much depends upon whether Walter Prescott left a will. I thought perhaps you’d like to talk things over informally in a preliminary way.”

  Wray regained his geniality immediately.

  “Now listen, Mr. Mason, I’m only too glad to cooperate with you in any way. Mrs. Prescott won’t be dependent on any will or any estate.”

  Mason offered Wray a cigarette, took one himself,snapped a pocket lighter into flame and asked, “Why not?”

  “Because it’s all taken care of.”

  “How?”

  “Walter took care of it. We have business insurance covering the death of a partner. His life is insured in my favor for twenty thousand dollars, my life is insured in his favor for twenty thousand dollars. The articles of partnership provide that in the event of the death of one of the partners, the wife of the deceased partner will receive the twenty thousand dollars in cash, in lieu of any interest in the partnership.”

  “Twenty thousand dollars, eh?” Mason asked.

  Wray nodded.

  “Rather a large amount, isn’t it? If you liquidated your business, do you think it would run to a gross of forty thousand?”

  “No, I don’t,” Wray admitted, and added with a grin, “In fact, I know damn well it wouldn’t. That was the idea of making the insurance large enough so there couldn’t be any question about it. In other words, the widow of the deceased partner would be tickled to death to take the cash instead of the half interest in the business. In that way, the survivor could keep the business going without having to wind it up. And then, of course, we paid the premiums on the insurance policies out of our partnership funds and those insurance policies were in the nature of a partnership asset which automatically increased our assets proportionately.”

  “And this was handled in a partnership agreement?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Mrs. Prescott sign that partnership agreement?”

  “Oh, yes. She signed it, and my wife signed it. It’s all drawn up legal and ship-shape. I’m surprised Mrs. Prescott didn’t tell you about that. Probably she didn’t fully understand it. And I presume she has plenty on her mind right now—tell me, do they actually have her in jail?”

  “They’re detaining her,” Mason said.

  “Well, it’s a damn shame—perhaps she doesn’t understand about this partnership agreement. You might explain it to her. This insurance isn’t part of the estate. The money will come to me and I’ll turn it over to Mrs. Prescott, accepting from her her release as to any right in the partnership assets.”

  “Mind if I take a look at that agreement?” Mason asked.

  “Not at all,” Wray said. “In fact, I’ve been rather anticipating you’d want to see it and have had Rosa dig it out of the safe.”

  “Rosa the girl in the outer office?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, Rosa Hendrix.”

  “Been with you long?”

  “Not very—four or five months. Very efficient and very attractive.”

  Mason nodded and unfolded the legal-backed document which Wray handed him. After he had read it, he nodded and said, “That seems to be well drawn.”

  “It is,” Wray assured him. “Counsel for the insurance company checked it over after our lawyer had drawn it.”

  Mason said, “As I understand it, when you executed that agreement, you automatically froze the value of a one-half interest in this partnership as twenty thousand dollars. If the partnership assets were worth a great deal less that that, the surviving widow would, nevertheless, receive twenty thousand dollars. And if, on the other hand, the partnership assets should increase in value, the widow couldn’t possibly receive more than twenty thousand dollars.”

  “We intended to take care of that by increasing the insurance in the event the partnership assets should show any sudden increase,” Wray explained.

  “I see,” Mason observed. “Would you mind giving me an offhand estimate of the actual value of the partnership assets?”

  Wray lowered his eyes, to stare at the surface of the desk for a few moments, then said, “Well, Mr. Mason, that’d be pretty hard to do.You see, this is a personal effort partnership. That is, we don’t have assets of the kind you’d have in a merchandising business, and—”

  “I understand all that,” Mason interrupted, “but what I want to know is generally what would be a fair valuation of the partnership assets.”

  “Why, whatever our good will’s worth,”

  “What’s that worth?”

  “Whatever we could count on taking in through our joint efforts.”

  “Perhaps,” Mason told him, “I can get at it another way. Would you mind telling me how much you each took out of the business during the last year?”

  Wray avoided Mason’s eyes, swung from his office chair and started for the safe. Halfway there, he changed his mind, turned around, came back to the desk, sat down and said, “I think we took out about six thousand apiece.”

  “Each of you drew out six thousand dollars?”

  “Around that, yes.”

  “Then,” Mason said, “Walter Prescott couldn’t have put any money into the business.”

  Wray suddenly smiled. His eyes met Mason’s, and he said, “Oh, that’s it. You’re wondering about that twelve thousand dollars Rosalind Prescott said she gave Walter to put in the business.”

  Mason nodded.

  Wray said, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Mason, she’s all wet on that. She didn’t put any money into this partnership.”

  “Do you think she gave him twelve thousand dollars?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say about that. If she says she did, then I’d be inclined to agree with her.”

  “And if Walter said she hadn’t given him any money, would that change your views any?”

  “That’s rather a tough question.”

  “I know it is.”

  “Well,” Wray said after a moment, “my answer stands.”

  “In that event,” Mason asked, “what would Walter have done with the money?”

  Wray laughed nervously. “Now you’re asking me to be something of a clairvoyant.”

  “No,” Mason told him, “I’m not asking you to do anything more than make a guess.”

  “I couldn’t guess.”

  “How about women?”

  “Oh, no,” Wray hastily assured him. “No women. Walter wasn’t that kind.”

  “What makes you think he wasn’t?”

  “You didn’t know him personally?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Wray said, “if you’d known him, you’d realize what I mean. He was sort of—oh, sort of cold-blooded—gave you the impression of having ice water in his veins—more the bookkeeping type. He didn’t make friends readily and wasn’t much of a mixer. I brought in most of the business. I like to circulate around. Walter—”

  He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on his desk. Wray dove toward the receiver with an eager alacrity which showed he welcomed the interruption, said, “Hello,” then nodded to Mason and said, “It’s for you, Mr. Mason.” He passed the telephone over, and Mason said, “Hello,” heard Drake’s voice saying, “Okay, Perry, you win.”

  “What do I win?” Mason asked.

  “You win on hunches. I’ve done some fast work and located this Carl Packard under another name.”

  “What’s the other name?” Mason asked.

  “Jason Braun.”

  “Brown?” Mason asked.

  “No,” Drake said, “it’s B-r-a-u-n, Jason Braun.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “what about Jason Braun?”

  “He disappeared about two weeks ago, had an apartment on West Thirty-fifth Street, a bachelor place with maid service, rent paid up in advance, a few friends, a speaking acquaintance with the landlady, subscription to the daily newspaper, a couple of girl friends who occasionally dropped in for a cocktail, and the usual background a young salesman would have.

  “Then he vanished from sight. Newspapers piled up in front of the door. The bed hadn’t been slept in. Mail came and laid unclaimed in the box. A suit at the cleaners he’d been most anxious to have ready at a certain time wasn’t called for. One of the girl friends rang up the landlady, said he’d had a date with her and hadn’t kept it. She felt sure something must have happened to him. After talking with her, the landlady notified the police. The police found out that he’d taken his car from the garage, as usual, and disappeared. He’d told the landlady he was a salesman. No one seemed to know exactly what it was he was selling. The police tried to check back on him and came up against a blank wall. He wasn’t registered as a voter. They couldn’t find where he was employed. The theory of the police was that his employer would probably make a report if it was a genuine disappearance. When they didn’t hear anything further, they just let the matter drop. They have a complete file on the case at the Missing Persons Bureau.”

  “How do you know that he’s the man we want?” Mason asked.

  “Through the car,” Drake said. “I went to the garage where he kept his car, found he’d had some work done on it recently, got the mechanic who did the work, took him out to the wrecked car, showed it to him, and he identified it absolutely, pointed out some of the work he’d done on it. We’re out there now. I’m telephoning from that drug store.”

  “Any explanation of how this car happens to be registered in the name of Carl Packard?”

  “No, but it’s Braun’s car, all right, but the manufacturer’s serial numbers on it don’t agree with the serial numbers on that registration certificate.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, the mechanic just pointed that out to me. When he’d worked on the car it had different license plates on it and had been registered to Jason Braun. The present license numbers agree with the registration certificate to Carl Packard, and the make and model of car is the same. The rest of it is all haywire.”