“Did she say she would?”

  “She didn’t say anything except what a mess she’d be in if Boring let anyone know she’d signed a contract to become a quote white slave unquote.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “under the circumstances, I think we should stay here in the suite until Dianne shows up. Did she tell Foster anything about her father?”

  “Apparently,” Della Street said, “Foster is overlooking the obvious. He was trying to get Dianne to talk about her family, about her father’s brothers and sisters, about her mother’s relatives. He’s looking for some distant tie-in, some obscure relative she has lost track of who could have died and left her a fortune that no one knows about.

  “How did you come out with Winlock? Any luck?”

  “We hit pay dirt, Della.”

  “Then, Dianne is his daughter?”

  “Yes. She’s his daughter and she’s a blackmailer’s bonanza.”

  “What are you going to do?” I she asked.

  “Throw some of my weight around,” Mason said. “I have three objectives. First, to safeguard Dianne’s interests; second, to keep Foster from finding out the facts; third, to scare the living hell out of a blackmailer so he’ll become a fugitive from justice.”

  “And then what?” Della Street asked.

  “Boring has taken ten thousand dollars blackmail money. I don’t know whether we can prove it so it will stand up in court, but he undoubtedly has the ten thousand dollars in cash in his possession. He can’t explain how he got it.

  “Winlock is sitting on the edge of a volcano. I don’t know just what he’s worth but I imagine we can make a deal with him by which Dianne can get at least a half million dollars in return for not blowing the whistle—but before we make any settlement with Winlock we’ll find out just how much is involved. I think when Dianne knows the facts, she’ll be inclined to be charitable but there’s the emotional shock which has to be cushioned.”

  “When will she know the facts?” Della Street asked.

  “Just as soon as I see her,” Mason said. “She’s my client. I’m her attorney. My knowledge is her knowledge. I can tell her what I know in confidence and then we’ll work out the best course of action, but I have her emotions to consider.”

  “We were,” Della Street reminded him, “talking about dinner.”

  “I think they have excellent room service here,” Mason said. “We’ll have a big porterhouse steak, with baked potatoes and sour cream, tomato and avocado salad, Thousand Island dressing, and—”

  “Heavens!” Della Street said. “Are you trying to make a Dianne Alder out of me? Am I supposed to put on twelve pounds?”

  Mason said. “You’re working for a fiend in human form. I’m fattening you up for the South American market.”

  “My resistance has turned to putty,” Della Street said. “I’m unable to resist the thought of savory food.… Suppose Dianne comes in while we’re waiting or while we’re eating?”

  “That’s the idea of the big porterhouse steak,” Mason said. “We’ll have it big enough so we can put in an extra plate and feed Dianne.”

  “If you’re going to feed her,” Della Street said, “you’d better order a double chocolate malted milk and some mince pie alamode on the side.”

  “And if Dianne shouldn’t show up?” Mason asked. “I suppose you could—”

  Della Street threw up her hands. “Don’t do it,” she said. “I might not be able to resist.”

  Mason looked at his watch. “Well,” he said, “I think Dianne will probably be in. Ring the registration desk and see if she’s here or has a reservation, Della, and get room service and have the food sent up here in forty-five minutes.”

  Della Street inquired for Dianne Alder, found out that she was not registered at the hotel, contacted room service and ordered the meal.

  While they were waiting, Mason put through a call to Paul Drake. “Anything new at your end, Paul?”

  “Things have simmered down here.”

  “Dianne is up here,” Mason said. “Sit right there in your office. Things are coming to a head. You can have some hamburgers sent in.”

  “Have a heart, Perry. I was taking soda bicarbonate all afternoon.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “on second thought, Paul, you may as well go out, but be back inside of an hour and leave word with the office where you can be reached. I’ve seen Winlock and now I know all the answers.”

  “You mean he admitted—”

  “I mean we’re okay,” Mason said, “but I can’t discuss it.”

  “How long do you want my men on the job up there, Perry?”

  “Until I tell you to quit. I think we’re about at the end of the case now—at least this phase of it—but our friend, Dillard, is anchored there at the motel. Evidently Boring has him spotted and is getting pretty suspicious.”

  “What are you going to do with Boring?”

  “After I’ve seen Dianne,” Mason said, “I’m going down and have a heart-to-heart talk with Boring.”

  “You mean the party is going to get rough?”

  “I mean the party is going to get very rough.”

  “Can you handle him, Perry?”

  “I can handle him. I never saw any blackmailer yet I couldn’t handle. I’m going to put him in such a position that he’ll consider himself a fugitive from justice, and if his conscience makes him resort to flight and concealment of his identity, I don’t see how I can be expected to do anything about that.”

  “Certainly not,” Drake said. “You’ll be a paragon of righteous virtue. I’m on my way, Perry. I’ll leave word in the office where I can be reached, but don’t call me until I’ve wrapped myself around the outside of a steak and French fried potatoes.”

  “Better make it a baked potato,” Mason said, “or you’ll be eating bicarbonate again. Be good, Paul.”

  The lawyer hung up, looked at his watch, said, “I wish Dianne, would show up. I want to have all the reins in my hand before I start driving.”

  It was, however, twenty minutes later that there was a timid knock at the door of the suite.

  Mason nodded to Della Street. “Dianne,” he said.

  Della went over and opened the door.

  Dianne Alder stood on the threshold.

  “Come in, Dianne,” Della Street said. “He’s here.”

  Dianne followed her into the room, gave Mason a forced smile, said, “Oh, I’m so glad.”

  “Sit down,” Mason said. “We have a nice steak coming up and you look to me as though you could use a drink.”

  “I could use two of them,” she said.

  “All in, eh?” Mason asked.

  She nodded.

  Mason said, “Look, Dianne, let’s get certain things straightened out. You’ve paid me a retainer. I’m your attorney. We have a confidential relationship. Anything you tell me is in confidence; anything that I learn which could affect you in any way, I tell you. I’m obligated to. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, you’re in for a shock,” Mason told her. “You’re going to have some information which is going to hit you right where you live.… What do you want to drink?”

  “Is brandy all right?”

  “No,” Mason said. “That’s not the kind of a before-dinner drink you should have—you want a Manhattan or a Martini.”

  “I don’t think I want anything to eat.”

  Mason said, “What’s the matter, Dianne? Something seems to be bothering you. Suppose you start by telling me a few things. Why did you come to Riverside in such a rush?”

  “I … I wanted to see somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Boring.”

  “You knew he was up here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Someone told me.”

  “Who?”

  “A man who knows work for.”

  “Montrose Poster?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else did Foster tell you?”

  “That I’ve been a little fool, that Mr. Boring was just trying to take advantage of me and that the contract about using me for a model was all just eyewash; that what he really had in mind was something altogether different.”

  Mason regarded her thoughtfully, said, “Did he tell you what it was, Dianne?”

  “White slavery.”

  Mason crossed over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Look, Dianne,” he said, “this has been a rough day as far as you’re concerned. You’ve had some shocks and you’re going to have some more shocks. You’ve been seeing too many movies. Now quit worrying about Boring. Leave him to me.”

  The telephone rang.

  Mason nodded to Della Street, again turned to Dianne. “Look, Dianne, you’re shaking like a leaf. What’s the trouble?”

  She started to cry.

  Della Street, on the telephone, said, “I’ll get him right away, Sid.”

  She nodded to Mason. “Sid Nye. Says its important.”

  Mason hurried across to the telephone, picked up the instrument, said, “Yes, Sid. What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Nye said, “but I’ve had a call from Moose Dillard. It was a peculiar call.”

  “What was it?”

  “He said, ‘Sid, do you know who is talking?’ and I recognized his voice and said yes, and he said, ‘Hey Rube’ and hung up.”

  “Just that?” Mason asked.

  “Just that. Just Hey Rube. He worked for a circus at one time. You can figure what that means.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At the Tri-Counties.”

  “How long will it take you to get down to the front of the Mission Inn?”

  “About two minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” Mason said.

  The lawyer hung up the telephone, turned to Della Street. “Della,” he said, “tell Dianne the story. Break it to her easy, one woman to another. When the food comes up, give her some food and put a piece of steak aside for me. I may be back in time to get it. I may not.”

  “Two Martinis for Dianne?” Della Street asked.

  Mason shifted his eyes to Dianne.

  She met his gaze for a moment, then lowered her eyes.

  Mason whirled to Della Street. “Not a damn one,” he said, “and she’s not to talk with anyone until I get back. Understand? Not anyone!”

  Mason made a dash for the door.

  Chapter 10

  Sid Nye picked Mason up in front of the Mission Inn.

  “What do you make of it, Sid?”

  “It’s a jam of some sort. Moose isn’t one to lose his head in a situation of that kind. Evidently something’s happened and he didn’t dare say anything over the phone because the call probably went through the switchboard at the motel. He evidently wanted to use something that I’d understand and other people wouldn’t. Moose is quite a character. He had a circus background and he knew I’d understand Hey Rube.”

  “That means a free-for-all fight?” Mason asked.

  “Not exactly. It means that all the carnival people gather together against the outsiders. It may or may not mean a clem, but it means you start knocking anything or anybody out of your way and—well, it’s just a good old rallying battle cry.”

  Nye was piloting the car with deft skill through the traffic.

  “Then Dillard needs help?”

  “He sure as hell does,” Nye said. “It could be almost anything. It means he’s in a hell of a jam and wants us to get there.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “it suits me all right. I’m due to have a little talk with Harrison T. Boring as of now.”

  “It’s a talk he’ll like?” Nye asked, grinning.

  Mason said, “It’s a talk which will, I hope, give Mr. Boring an entirely new series of ideas and perhaps a complete change of environment.”

  Nye swung the car down a side street, suddenly slowed, said, “That’s a police car in front of the place, Perry.”

  “What number is Dillard in?” Mason asked.

  “Number 5.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “drive right up to Number 5. If Dillard is in trouble, we’ll be right there. If the police car is there for someone else, we’ll pay no attention but go into Dillard’s place.”

  Nye swung into the entrance of the motel, found a parking place, switched off headlights and ignition, looked to Mason for instructions.

  “Right into Number 5,” Mason said.

  The lawyer and Nye converged on the door of Number 5. “Try the knob,” Mason said in an undertone.

  Nye was reaching for the knob when the door opened.

  There were no lights on inside the unit. The big lumbering individual who hulked in the doorway said in a husky voice, “Come on in.”

  “No lights?” Nye asked.

  “No lights,” Dillard said, and closed the door behind them. “Don’t stumble over anything. Your eyes’ll get accustomed to the darkness in a minute. I’m sitting here at the window with the curtains parted so I can get a line on what’s happening.”

  “What is happening?”

  “I don’t know. The police are there now, and the ambulance left just a few minutes ago.”

  “The ambulance?” Nye said.

  “That’s right. They took him away.”

  “Who? Boring?”

  “Right.”

  Nye said, “You know Perry Mason, Moose.”

  “Sure,” Moose said, his hand groping for Mason’s in the dark. “How are you, Mr. Mason? Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  Then he said, by way of explanation to Nye, “Mason got me out of a jam a while back.”

  “I know,” Nye said. “Just wanted to be sure you recognized him in the dark. Now, what’s been happening out here?”

  “Plenty has been happening,” Dillard said, “but what it’s all about is more than I know. Boring was having a convention. All sorts of people coming and going. Then the girl showed up and left in a hurry and about ten minutes after she left the cops came. I wanted to keep casing the joint and didn’t want to give a tip-off to the manager. I had a hell of a time getting anyone on the phone. Whatever was happening, it took their attention off the switchboard. Finally I managed to get them to answer.— You can’t get an outside line on these phones unless they connect you.— I guess I was all of five minutes jiggling that hook up and down, putting the light on and off, waiting for someone to answer.”

  “All right,” Nye said, “they answered. Was there anything unusual? Did they apologize or make any explanation?”

  “Not a word. Someone said, ‘Manager’s office,’ and I said, ‘I want to get an outside line,’ and the manager said, ‘You can’t dial a number from this phone. You have to give me the number and I connect you.’ So I gave them the number of the Tri-Counties and asked for you. I was pretty certain they were listening on the line. I could hear breathing. So I just told you, ‘Hey Rube,’ and hung up. I figured that would get you here as quick as anything and I didn’t want to ask you to come rushing out because I knew you ask questions and if I started answering questions we’d have this unit under surveillance and that might not be the thing you wanted.”

  “That’s good thinking,” Mason said. “What happened after that?”

  “An ambulance came right after I hung up. They took him out on a stretcher.”

  “He isn’t dead then,” Mason said.

  “It was an ambulance, not a meat wagon. I don’t know what sort of a system they use here but I have an idea the ambulance means the guy’s hurt.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “let’s find out what happened. Who came here?”

  “I can’t give you names,” Dillard said. “I can give you one license number and some descriptions. That’s all I have to go on at the present time.”

  “You were watching through the window?”

  “Had the lights out and the curtains parted and a pair of eye-glass binoculars. Those have about a two and a half power magnification; and then I’ve got an eight-power binocular here that is a night glass. I use it on surveillance jobs of this sort.”

  “All right, what can you give us?” Mason asked.

  “I can’t give you too much without turning the light on so I can read my notes. I made the notes in the dark.”

  “Tell us what you can remember.”

  “First rattle out of the box,” Dillard said, “there was this fellow who’s been prowling around Bolero Beach; a slim, fast-moving guy with a mosquito beak for a nose.…”

  “His name’s Montrose Foster,” Mason said. “He’s the president, whatever that means, of Missing Heirs and Lost Estates, Inc. Boring was working for him until he suddenly quit his job, and Foster thinks Boring hit some pay dirt that he didn’t want to share with anyone.”

  “Could be,” Dillard said. “Anyway, this fellow came in around eight and he was there about fifteen minutes. I’ve got the times marked down.”

  “Now, you could see all of these people all right?” Mason asked.

  “Sure. There was some daylight when this man you call Foster was here. And later on there’s enough light here in the parking place so I could see people well enough to identify them.”

  “Okay”, Mason said. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, for about five minutes after this man Foster left there was nothing doing. I kept thinking our man would go out to dinner but he didn’t. He seemed to be waiting for someone or something. And then, around twenty minutes past eight, this kid driving a sports car showed up and boy, was he making time. He slammed that sports car into the entrance and wham! right no to Unit Number 10. He jumped out and was inside all in one motion. It was getting dark then.”

  “Did he knock on the door?” Mason asked.

  “He knocked.”

  “How old was this man?”

  “Around twenty-two to twenty-three; somewhere in there; driving a high-powered foreign sports model. He parked it at such an angle I couldn’t get the license number.”

  “On a guess,” Mason said, that was Marvin Harvey Palmer.

  “All right, how long did he stay?”