“And what did you tell her?” Mason asked.

  “I told her that I’d co-operate if she was sure that was what she wanted,” Calvert said, “and then I’ve been thinking things over and—well, I just about decided to change my mind. When you came down here and got me up out of a sound sleep, I was mad! I made up my mind I wasn’t going to fall all over myself fixing it so she could get tied up with this man Farrell. He’s a fourflusher, a woman chaser—and he’s just no good!”

  “Do you have the letter which your wife wrote?” Mason asked.

  “I have it,” Calvert said. “Just a minute.” He kicked off the blanket, walked into the bedroom again, came back with an envelope which he handed to Mason.

  The lawyer shook the letter out of the envelope, read:

  Dear Norton,

  There’s no reason why either of us should go on this way. We’re both young, and we may as well have our freedom. We’ve made a mistake which has cost us a lot of heartaches, but there’s no reason for it to ruin our lives. I’m going to Reno and get a divorce. They tell me that, if you will get a lawyer and make an appearance in Reno, that will save me a lot of time and a lot of money in having the case brought to trial.

  So why not be a sport and give me a break? You don’t want a wife who isn’t living with you, and I don’t want to be tied up by marriage. That’s not fair to me and it isn’t doing you any good.

  I’m sorry I hurt you so much. I’ve said this to lots of people and I’ll keep on saying it: You are one of the most thoughtful, considerate husbands a girl could ask for. You’re sweet and patient and understanding. I’m sorry that I couldn’t have been a better wife to you, but after all each person has to live his own life. Now be a sport and let me make a clean break, so we can both begin all over.

  Yours, Rose

  Calvert began twisting his fingers nervously. “I just can’t seem to picture her as being dead, Mr. Mason. She’s so full of life and vitality. You’re sure?”

  “No,” Mason told him, “I’m not sure. But I thin the woman I saw was your wife. She was blond with blue eyes, and she was wearing this blue sweater which just about matched her eyes. The eyes were only partially open, and—well, you know how it is with a dead person. Sometimes it’s hard to make a positive identification from photographs, but I think I’m right.”

  “What was she doing at the Redfern Hotel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How does Gifford Farrell figure in this?”

  “I don’t know that. I don’t even know that he figures in it.”

  Calvert said with considerable feeling, “Well, you can bet your bottom dollar he figures in it somewhere. I guess I could have got along without Rose all right, if I’d felt she was being happy with somebody, but this … this thing—it just sort of knocks me for a loop.”

  Mason nodded sympathetically.

  Abruptly Calvert got up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. You’ve got the information you want and I … well, I’m just not able to keep on talking. I feel all choked up. I guess I’m going to take it pretty hard. I tried to pretend that I could get along without her, but I always had a feeling she was coming back, and—Just pull the door closed when you leave.”

  Calvert threw the blanket into a crumpled ball on the floor, walked back hurriedly to the bedroom, kicked the door shut.

  The house grew silent.

  Mason switched out the lights, and felt his way to the door. Behind him he could hear harsh, convulsive sobs coming from the other side of the bedroom door.

  The lawyer eased out of the house, tiptoed up the gravel walk. The dog in the adjoining house once more started a frenzied barking and was again calmed to silence by the man’s authoritative voice.

  Mason got in his car and drove back toward the city.

  From Corona, Mason called Paul Drake.

  “This is Perry, Paul. Any news?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “Body been identified?”

  “Not yet. At least not as far as anyone knows.”

  “Anything else new?”

  “Sgt. Holcomb rang up and wanted to know where you could be reached.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I didn’t know where you were, but I knew that you intended to be at the district attorney’s office at nine o’clock in the morning.”

  “What about Della?”

  “I told her you said to go home, but she didn’t go. She’s sticking it out. She’s got a percolator full of hot coffee … . What the heck are you doing down at Corona?”

  “Running down a lead,” Mason said. “Now look, Paul, here’s something I want you to do.”

  “What?”

  “Cover the Redfern Hotel. Find out if there were any check-outs from the seventh floor between six and eight last night. If there were, I want those rooms rented by some of your operatives.”

  “You can’t ask for a specific room by number,” Drake said. “It would make them suspicious … .”

  “Don’t be that crude,” Mason told him. “Have operatives go to the hotel. They’re just in from a plane trip. They don’t want to get too high, but they want to be high enough to be away from the street noises, something on the seventh floor. Then start getting particular until they get the rooms we want.”

  “Check-outs tonight? Is that right?”

  “Well, it’s yesterday night now,” Mason said, “but I want any check-outs between—well, say between six and nine just to be safe.”

  “You coming in here?” Drake asked.

  “I’m coming in,” Mason told him. “What have you found out about the gun? Anything?”

  “Not yet. We’re working.”

  “Well, get some action,” Mason told him.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Drake asked.

  “Sure, I know what time it is,” Mason said. “And I’ll tell you something for your information. By tomorrow the police will be swarming all over us. If we’re going to do anything at all, we’re going to have to do it before nine o’clock this morning.”

  “I’ve got ten men out,” Drake said. “They should turn up something. Come on in and have a cup of coffee. I’ll try to get a line on the hotel. I’ve got a couple of men in there already. They’re buying drinks, tipping the bellboys and trying to get them to talk.”

  “What kind of a place?” Mason asked.

  “You can get anything you want,” Drake told him.

  “Who runs it? The clerks?”

  “The bell captains run that end of it.”

  “Well, we may want something,” Mason told him. “I’m coming in, Paul. I’ll be seeing you in an hour.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mason’s steps echoed along the corridor of the silent building as he left the elevator and walked down to his office. He inserted his latchkey, snapped back the spring lock and opened the door.

  Della Street, who was stretched out in the overstuffed chair, her feet propped on another chair, her legs covered with a topcoat, jumped up, blinking.

  She saw Mason’s face, smiled, and said, “Gosh, Chief, I was asleep. I made myself comfortable and all of a sudden I went out like a light.

  “There’s coffee over there in the electric percolator. I’m afraid it’s pretty strong and stale by now. I made it fresh about midnight.”

  “Didn’t Drake tell you to go home?”

  “He told me you said to go home,” Della Street smiled. “But I thought I’d wait it out, at least until you got in.”

  “What have you got to go with the coffee?” Mason asked.

  “Doughnuts. And they’re pretty good. I went down to this doughnut shop just before it closed at midnight and got a bag of fresh doughnuts … . I’ll bet I’m a mess.”

  She shook out her skirt, put her hand to her hair, fluffed it out, smiled at Perry Mason.

  “What’s new?”

  “Lots, of things, Della. Give Paul Drake a ring and ask him if he wants to come down and have coffee, doughnuts and chitchat.”

  Della Street promptly put through the call, said, “He’s coming right down.”

  Mason opened the closet which contained the wash- stand, washed his hands and face in hot water, rubbed briskly with a towel.

  Della Street produced three big coffee mugs and opened the faucet on the electric percolator. The office filled with the aroma of hot coffee.

  Drake’s code knock sounded on the door.

  Della Street opened it.

  “Hi, Paul,” Mason said, hanging up the towel with which he had been drying his face. “What’s new?”

  “Not too much at this end,” Drake said. “What’s new with you?”

  “They’re going to have the body identified in about thirty minutes,” Mason said.

  “How do you know?”

  Mason grinned. “I fixed a time bomb so it will go off just about on schedule.”

  “How come?”

  “The body,” Mason said, “is that of Rose Calvert. Rose’s middle name, believe it or not, was Mistletoe. Her dad thought she might turn out to be romantic. His hunch was right—poor kid.

  “For your information, Rose’s husband, Norton B. Calvert, lives in Elsinore, is running a service station, and was waiting from day to day in hopes that his wife would come back.

  “Probably at about this time he’s at the Elsinore police station, telling them that he has reason to believe his wife has been murdered, and asking the Elsinore police to find out about it. They’ll call the Los Angeles police, and since there is only one unidentified body, at least so far, the police will ask for a description, and very shortly will have an identification.”

  “But won’t they find out that you were down there?” Della Street asked apprehensively.

  “They’ll find out I was down there,” Mason said, “and they’ll be mad. They’ll feel that I held out on them in respect to an identification of the body.”

  “Well?” Drake asked drily. “Wouldn’t that be a natural conclusion under the circumstances?”

  “Sure, it will,” Mason said. “So the police will decide to give my client the works. They’ll check on Rose Calvert, and find out that during the last few weeks of her life she had been very, very much involved with Gifford Farrell. They will, therefore, jump at the conclusion that Farrell is my client. They’ll descend on him, and they’ll probably be rather inconsiderate and ungentle.

  “Find out anything about that gun, Paul?”

  “Not yet. That information is supposed to be available only during office hours, at least to the general public. However, I took it on myself to issue a gratuity of fifty dollars and I’m expecting—”

  “Well, grab this coffee while it’s hot,” Della Street said, “and you can d9 your expecting right here.”

  Drake said dubiously, “I’ve been swigging down coffee all night.”

  Mason picked up one of the big mugs, put in sugar and cream, stood with his feet apart, leaning slightly forward. He reached for a doughnut, then raised the coffee mug to his lips.

  “How is it?” Della Street asked apprehensively.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Mason said.

  “I’m afraid it’s stale and bitter.”

  “It’s wonderful!”

  Drake tasted his coffee, said, “Well, you have to admit one thing, it’s strong.”

  “I need it that way,” Mason said. “At nine o’clock I’m going to have to face an irate district attorney, and by that time the police are going to feel I’ve pulled at least one fast one on them.”

  The telephone rang, and Della Street said, “That’s probably your office calling you now, Paul.”

  Drake put down his coffee mug and picked up the telephone.

  “Hello,” he said. “Yes, yes, this is Drake talking … . How’s that again … ? Hold the phone a second.” Drake looked up at Della Street and said, “Make a note, will you, Della? Pitcairn Hardware & Sporting Goods. Okay, I’ve got it. What’s the date? September second, three years ago. Okay.” Drake hung up the telephone, said, “Well, we’ve got the gun located. I don’t know whether this is going to do you any good or not, Perry.”

  “What do you mean?” Mason asked.

  “The gun was sold to the Texas Global for the protection of a cashier. The signature was that of the cashier, but the charge was made to the company itself on an order made by Conway.

  “You can see what that does. It brings that weapon right home to Jerry Conway.”

  Mason thought for a moment, then a slow grin suffused his features. “That,” he said, “brings the gun right home to Gifford Farrell. Gifford Farrell was with the company at that time, and was taking a very active part in the office management.”

  “What do you think happened?” Della Street asked.

  Mason stood holding his doughnut in one hand, his coffee mug in the other.

  “What I think happened is that Gifford Farrell had a fight with his sweetheart and probably caught her cheating. He lost his head, pulled a gun and fired. Or it may have been that Rose Calvert found Gifford was cheating and committed suicide. In any event, Farrell must have had Con- way’s telephone tapped. He knew that Conway was going to a public telephone booth to get directions at six-fifteen. Farrell took a chance. He had a girl call in at six-twelve, and Conway was there a few minutes early waiting for the other call. So Conway took the wrong message and was gone by the time the real message came in. Conway was just like a guided missile that’s being directed by radio. When he got to a certain point, someone with another more powerful radio stepped in, took control and sent the missile off on an entirely new path.”

  “Well,” Drake said, “it’s a two-edged sword. Remember that both Farrell and Conway could have had access to the fatal weapon.”

  “It’s all right,” Mason said, “unless—”

  “Unless what?” Della Street asked.

  “Unless,” Mason said, “Conway got smart and decided to—No, he wouldn’t do anything like that … . However, I didn’t take the number of the gun when he first showed it to us. It wasn’t until after he was down at the motel I wrote down the number … . Anyway, it’s all right. We’ll go down to see the DA. in the morning, and there’ll be nothing to it. He can’t make a case against Conway now, and he’s going to be afraid to try. What did you find out about check-outs, Paul?”

  “There was only one check-out at the hotel between six and nine from the seventh floor.”

  “What time was that check-out, Paul?”

  “About six-fifty.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A young woman named Ruth Culver.”

  “The room number?” Mason asked. “728.”

  “Where is that with reference to 729?”

  “Directly across the hall.”

  “Have you got that room sewed up?” Mason asked.

  “I have an operative in it right now. He’ll stay until we give him the word.”

  “What have you found out about the Culver girl?”

  “I’ve got men working on her. She’s in her twenties with auburn hair, a fairly good-looking babe … . Here’s the strange thing, Perry. She checked in about ten in the morning, then left just before seven that night.”

  “Did she make any explanation as to how she happened to check out at that time?”

  “She said she’d had a long-distance call. Her father who lives in San Diego is very ill.”

  “Baggage?” Mason asked.

  “Quite a bit of it.”

  Mason said, “Check the San Diego planes, Paul. Find out if one of them had a passenger named Ruth Culver, and—”

  “Now look,” Drake interrupted, “you don’t have to do all my thinking for me, Perry. That’s routine. However, the clerk thinks this girl said she was going to drive down.”

  Mason finished his doughnut, held out his mug for a refill.

  Della Street turned the spigot and let coffee trickle into the mug.

  “What about your operative up in Room 728? Can I trust him?” Mason asked.

  “You can trust him unless the police start putting pressure on him,” Drake said. “None of these operatives are going to stand up to the police, Perry. They need the good will of the police to keep working.”

  “What’s the name of this operative in Room 728?”

  “Fred Inskip.”

  “Does he know me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Give him a ring,” Mason said. “Tell him that I’m going to come up sometime before noon. Tell him to leave the door unlocked. I want to take a look in there … . How about the police? Have they cleared out?”

  “They’ve cleared out,” Drake said. “They sealed up Room 729.”

  Drake watched Mason as he picked up another doughnut, said, “How I envy you your stomach, Perry! I’ve ruined mine sitting up nights living on soggy hamburgers and lukewarm coffee. Somehow when coffee is lukewarm, you drink four or five cups of it. If you can get it piping hot, you don’t drink so much.”

  “Why don’t you get one of these big electric percolators?” Mason asked.

  “Let me have Della Street to run it and keep house, and I will.”

  Mason grinned. “Don’t talk like that, Paul. You could get yourself shot. Ring up Inskip and tell him to expect me around—oh, say ten or eleven.”

  Drake put his coffee mug down on a piece of blotting paper, dialed a number, said, “I want to talk with Mr. Inskip in 728, please. Yes, I know it’s a late hour, but he’s not in bed. He’s waiting for this call. Just give the phone the gentlest tinkle if you don’t believe me.”

  A moment later, Drake said, “Fred, this is Paul. I won’t mention any names, because I have an idea someone is monitoring our conversation, but a friend of mine is coming up to see you around ten o’clock. Leave the door unlocked … . Okay.”

  Drake hung up the telephone, said to Mason, “Remember, Sgt. Holcomb is looking for you. Are you going to try to get in touch with him?”

  “He’ll be in bed by this time,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t want to disturb his beauty sleep.”

  “Now look,” Drake warned, “remember this about Inskip. He isn’t in a position to hold out on the police if they start asking specific questions. You’ve been around the hotel, and someone may recognize you.”