"How do they fix the time?"
"A lot of ghoulish stuff that autopsy surgeons specialize in. They know what time he ate dinner, and they can tell the extent to which digestion had progressed."
Mason reached for his hat.
"Come on, Paul, we're going places."
"Where?"
"Just places."
Drake pulled his hat down lower on his forehead, tossed his halfsmoked cigarette into a cuspidor. Together the men rode down in the elevator.
"One thing about your cases," Drake said, "a person never gets too much sleep."
Mason led the way to the sidewalk. "Got a car here, Paul?"
"Yes."
"We're going to 3961 Melrose Avenue. I've put my car away."
The detective repeated the address musingly, then said, "That's where Douglas Keene lives."
"Correct. Are the police investigating him?"
"Not particularly. They're just rounding up names and addresses, and I made notes. Boy friend of Winnie's, isn't he? There was another one named… Let me see…" He thumbed through the pages of his notebook and said, "Inman—Harry Inman."
"Check," Mason said. "Let's go. We'll take your car."
"Okay," the detective said, "my car's carefully picked so it won't attract attention. It isn't distinctive, if you know what I mean."
"I take it," Mason said, grinning, "there are a million cars in this state. One hundred thousand of them are new—two hundred thousand of them are almost new—and this is…"
"One of the seven hundred thousand," the detective finished, opening the door of a dilapidated, nondescript car.
Mason climbed in. Drake wormed under the steering wheel, and started the motor.
"The police going to be interested in this chap?" Drake inquired.
"That's a chance we've got to take."
"Under those circumstances," the detective announced, "we park the car a block or two away and walk the rest of the distance."
Mason nodded moodily. "And pray that we're not interrupted while we're searching the room."
"We going to break in?" Drake inquired with a sidelong glance.
"We'll try not to break anything," Mason replied.
"Meaning, I take it, that you want me to bring along a housebreaking kit."
"Something of the sort, yes."
"I've got one in the car, but where will we be if the police catch us?"
Mason said, "It's Douglas Keene's place, and he's a client of mine although he may not know it. I'm going to enter his rooms for the purpose of protecting his interests. Burglary, you understand, lies in the unlawful entering of a place with a felonious purpose."
"These fine distinctions are too much for me," Drake admitted. "I'm just leaving it up to you to keep us out of jail. I figure I can take any chances you can take. Come on, let's go."
Paul Drake's car was decidedly inconspicuous in color, model and design. Mason sighed resignedly as it jolted into motion. " Keene figure as a suspect on anything?" Drake asked.
"That's why we're going out there—we want to beat everyone to it."
"You mean that he will enter into the picture later on?"
Mason failed to answer the question, and Drake said, with a grin, "I take it that means that what I don't know won't hurt me," and devoted himself to driving the car.
After some fifteen minutes, he slid the car in close to the deserted curb, looked up and down the street, switched off the lights and locked the car. "Two blocks to walk," he observed. "That's close enough to leave the machine on his sort of a job."
"With a real burglary, I take it, you'd have left it a mile away," Mason said.
Drake nodded his head emphatically. "And then stayed parked behind the steering wheel," he agreed. "You lawyers take too many chances with the law to suit me."
"I'm not a lawyer," Mason grinned, "except as a sideline. I'm an adventurer."
The men walked briskly side by side, saying nothing, but their eyes were restless as they kept a watch for prowl cars of radio officers. They turned the corner, walked three quarters of a block, and Drake nudged the attorney's elbow. "This is the place."
"The outer door should be easy," Mason said casually.
"Nothing to it," Drake agreed optimistically. "They're made to open with a passkey. Almost anything will work them. Anyone coming?"
"No one in sight."
"Okay, hold your coat so it conceals the beam of this flashlight."
Drake played the beam of a small flashlight on the door, produced keys from his pocket.
A moment later the lock clicked back, and the men entered the apartment house.
"What floor?" Drake asked.
"The third."
"What's the apartment?"
"308. "
"Better take the stairs."
They walked up the stairs with silent feet. On the third corridor Drake cast professional eyes over the locks on the doors.
"Spring locks," he observed.
He found 308 paused before it and whispered, "How about a knock?"
Mason shook his head.
Drake whispered. "We can rush things by pushing back the catch."
Mason said laconically, "Rush things, then."
There was a fine crack between the door and the jamb. The detective, taking a cowhide tool kit from his pocket, extracted an instrument which looked very much like the long, thin spatula knife used by artists and druggists. "Hold the flashlight, Perry."
Mason held the flashlight. Drake was inserting the steel, when Mason suddenly gripped his wrist. "What's that?" the lawyer asked in a whisper.
Drake looked at the peculiar markings on the woodwork under the tip of Mason's pointing finger. "Someone's beat us to it," he said. "They may be in there now."
Both men stared at the place where the wood had been slightly crushed under the pressure of a steel instrument. "A bungling job," Drake volunteered.
"Let's go on in," Mason told him.
Drake said, "You're the doctor," and inserted the blade. He manipulated it for a moment. The lock clicked back.
"Turn the knob and open the door, Perry," the detective said, still holding the latch back.
Perry Mason turned the knob, and they entered the room.
"Lights?" Drake inquired.
Mason nodded and clicked on the electric lights.
"A good place not to leave any fingerprints, Paul," he suggested.
Drake looked at him with an expression which intensified the droll humor of his features. "Are you," he asked, "telling me?"
Mason looked about the room.
"Bed hasn't been slept in," he said.
"It's turned down," Drake pointed out, "and the pillow is mussed up."
"Just the same, it hasn't been slept in. There's nothing that's harder to simulate than the type of wrinkle which is produced in a sheet from long contact with a body."
Drake inspected the bed, and nodded.
The apartment was a typical bachelor's apartment. Ash trays were littered with cigarette stubs. There were a whiskey bottle, a dirty glass, a couple of soiled collars, and a tie clasp on the bureau. Half a dozen neckties were hooked over the mirror support. A closet door was half open, showing several suits hanging from a rod. Drawers in a dresser were partially open.
Mason opened the drawers and stared thoughtfully at them.
"Suitcase," he said, "packed in a hurry." He scooped out handkerchiefs, socks, shirts and underwear. "Let's take a look in the bathroom, Paul."
"What are you looking for?" Drake asked.
"I don't know; I'm just looking."
Mason opened the bathroom door, then suddenly recoiled.
Drake, looking over his shoulder, gave a low whistle and said, "If he's your client, you'd better plead him guilty."
Someone, working with the frenzy of panic, had evidently tried to remove traces of blood from clothing in the bathroom, and the job had not been thoroughly done. The washbowl was spattered with red. Water had been turned in the
bathtub and had not been drained. It was colored a peculiar reddish brown. A pair of trousers had been washed and hung up to dry over the metal rod which supported the shower curtain. A pair of shoes had been washed, evidently with soap and water, and the washing had been insufficient. Stains still remained in the leather.
"We'll take a look in the closet," Mason said.
They walked back to the closet. Drake's flashlight illuminated the dark corners, showed a pile of dirty clothes. Drake pulled clothes from the top of the pile and then paused as the beam of the flashlight illuminated bloodspattered garments.
"Well," he said, "that's that."
Mason kicked the clothes back in the corner.
"Okay, Paul, we're finished here."
"I'll say," the detective agreed. "What's the technical definition of what we're doing here?"
"That," Mason said, "depends on whether I define it or whether a district attorney does. Come on, let's get going."
They left the apartment, switching out the lights, and pulling the spring lock shut behind them.
"Let's hunt up that preacher," Mason suggested.
"He won't come to the door," Drake objected, "and let us in just to answer questions—not at this hour of the morning. He'll be more than likely to call the police."
"We'll use Della," Mason said, "and let him think it's an elopement."
He had Drake drive to a restaurant where there was a telephone, and called Della Street 's apartment. He heard her sleepy voice coming over the wire.
"Getting to be a habit with me, waking you up like this," he said. "How would you like to elope?"
There was a quick, gasping intake in her breath.
"I mean," Mason explained, "make a person think you're eloping."
"Oh," she said tonelessly. "Like that, eh?"
"That's the sketch," Mason told her. "Get on some things and we'll be out there. It'll be a new experience for you. You're going to drive in a car that'll send ripples up and down your backbone every time you hit a bump in the street, so don't worry about taking a shower; you can be massaged into wakefulness."
Paul Drake was yawning prodigiously as Mason hung up the telephone.
"The first night is always the hardest," he said; "after that I get accustomed to going without sleep on your cases. Some day, Perry, we're going to get caught and go to jail. Why the hell don't you sit in your office and let cases come to you the way other lawyers do?"
"For the same reason a hound doesn't like to follow a cold scent," Mason said. "I like my cases served up while they're hot."
"I'll say they're hot!" the detective agreed. "Some day we'll both get our fingers burnt."
Chapter 11
Perry Mason pushed his finger against the doorbell. Della Street nudged Paul Drake and said, "Say something and laugh. We're all too serious for an elopement. You'd look more natural with a shotgun. Stand over here closer to me, Chief. He'll probably turn on a porch light and look out."
Drake remarked lugubriously, "Why should people laugh at a marriage? Marriage is a serious business."
Della Street moaned. "I should have known better than to stage an elopement with a couple of confirmed bachelors. You're so darned afraid some fish might steal the bait, you don't dare let your line get near the water."
Perry Mason stepped close to Della Street, put his arm around her and drew her close to him. "The trouble with us is, we haven't even got a line," he said.
A light in a hallway clicked on. Della Street kicked Paul Drake in the shin with the heel of her shoe and said, "Hurry up and laugh."
She broke into a peal of light, merry laughter, as a porch light flooded the trio with dazzling brilliance.
The detective gave a grimace of pain, rubbed his shin, and said mirthlessly, "Ha, ha."
The door opened some two or three inches. A safety chain snapped taut. A man's eyes stared out at them cautiously.
"Reverend Milton?" asked Perry Mason.
"Yes."
"We wanted to see you… about… a marriage."
The man's eyes showed extreme disapproval. "It's no time to be getting married," he said.
Mason took a wallet from his pocket, took out a fivedollar bill, then another fivedollar bill, then a third, and a fourth. "I'm sorry," he remarked, "that we awakened you."
After a moment, Milton slipped off the safety chain, opened the door and said, "Come in. Have you a license?"
Mason stood to one side while Della Street entered the hallway; then he and Drake crowded in. Drake kicked the door shut. Mason moved so he was between the inner door to the hallway and the man who wore dressing gown, pajamas and slippers.
"You received a call tonight from a chap by the name of Oafley," Mason said.
"What has that to do with this marriage?" Milton demanded.
"That's the marriage we came to see you about."
"I'm sorry. You got in here under false representations. You said you wished to be married. I don't care to answer any questions whatever about Mr. Oafley."
Perry Mason arched his eyebrows in surprise, then frowned and said belligerently, "Look here, what are you talking about—getting in here by false representations?"
"You said you wanted to be married."
"I said no such thing," Mason retorted. "We told you that we wanted to see you about a marriage. It was Oafley's marriage to Edith DeVoe."
"You didn't say that."
"Well, we're saying it now."
"I'm very sorry, gentlemen, but I have nothing to say."
Mason looked significantly at Paul Drake, nodded his head toward a wall telephone which was near the hall door and said, "Okay, Paul, call Police Headquarters."
Drake strode to the telephone. Milton made a grimace, wet his lips nervously with the tip of his tongue, and said in surprise, "Police Headquarters?"
"Certainly," Mason said.
"Who are you?" Milton demanded.
"That man," the lawyer remarked, indicating Drake by a nod of his head, "is a detective."
"Look here," Milton said nervously, "I don't want to get into any trouble over this thing."
"I didn't think you did… Wait a minute, Paul. Don't call Headquarters right away. It may be this man's innocent."
"Innocent!" Milton blazed. "Of course, I'm innocent. I performed a marriage ceremony and that's all."
Mason's face showed utter incredulity. "And didn't know the woman had a husband living?" he asked.
"Of course, I didn't know the woman had a husband living. What are you insinuating? Do you mean to intimate that I'd perform a bigamous marriage knowing that it was bigamous?"
Milton 's voice rose in quavering indignation.
Della Street stepped forward, slipped her arm through his and said soothingly, "It's all right. Don't lose your temper. That isn't what the Chief meant."
"The Chief?" Milton remarked, his eyes bulging.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Della Street remarked. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Just who are you and what do you want?" Milton asked.
"I'll answer your second question first. We want to know exactly what time you performed a marriage ceremony between Edith DeVoe and Frank Oafley."
Milton was now only too willing to talk.
"The parties were very anxious to keep the ceremony secret, but I didn't suspect it was a bigamous marriage. I received a call at approximately nine o'clock, asking me to come to a certain address. The party who called me on the telephone stated that it was a matter of the greatest importance, but didn't say what it was. He did say, however, that I would be very well compensated. I went to the address. I found Mr. Oafley, whom I had met previously, and a young woman who was introduced as Miss Edith DeVoe. They had a marriage license, properly issued, and, as a minister of the Gospel, I solemnized a marriage."
"Were there witnesses?"
"There were some men next door who were engaged in a little… er… gathering. I think perhaps they were playing cards. Mr. Oafley stepped to the door and asked them to w
itness the marriage ceremony."
"What time was the ceremony performed?"
"About ten o'clock."
"When did you leave there?"
"Twenty minutes later. There was quite a bit of goodnatured chaffing. The men were very nice, very cordial, very… well, er, convivial. There was a little party… Of course, I didn't touch anything myself, and I can't say that I approved of the spirit of the occasion, but, nevertheless, they were interesting people, and it was impossible to leave immediately."
"You mean they drank a toast to the health of the bride and groom?"
"To the health of the bride, the health of the groom, to my health."
"Do you know exactly what time you left?"
"No, it was around ten fifteen, perhaps a few minutes later than that."
"Were you well paid?" Perry Mason asked.
"Very well paid, very well paid, indeed."
Mason said slowly, "How long had you known Frank Oafley?"
"He has been in my church on several occasions."
"A regular member?"
"No. Not a regular member. I wouldn't class him as such, but he has been there, and I have met him."
"He introduced you to the young woman?"
"Yes. And the apartment was in her name, 'Edith DeVoe. "
"Did they tell you why they were anxious to have the marriage kept secret?"
"No, they didn't. I understood there was some question of opposition on the part of relatives. I think the young woman was a nurse, and Mr. Oafley is, I believe, of rather a wealthy family. However, I paid little attention to that. I performed the marriage ceremony and…"
"Kissed the bride, I presume," Mason interrupted with a laugh.
The Reverend Milton failed to see any ground for humor in the remark. He said very seriously, "As a matter of fact, I did not. The bride kissed me as I was leaving."
Mason nodded to Paul Drake, reached for the knob of the outer door. "That's all," he said.
"Was the marriage bigamous?"
"In view of what you tell me," Mason said, "I don't think it was. But I was checking up on it. You know, marriages that are performed under such circumstances are always open to suspicion."
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