The trio slipped hastily through the door into the night, leaving Milton blinking after them in bewildered appraisal. Then he slammed the door shut, and they heard the clink of the safety chain as it was slid into position, and the rasp of the bolt.
"I'm a lawyer," Mason remarked, "and darn seldom even bother to lock my door. This chap is supposed to have all sorts of faith in human nature, and he barricades himself behind a lot of thiefproof doodads."
"I know," Della Street said with a nervous giggle, "but brides don't have to follow you to the door to kiss you."
Mason chuckled.
"What's next?" Paul Drake asked.
"If we can survive the ordeal of another journey in that car of yours, we're going to see Winnie."
"You know where to find her at this hour of the night?" Drake asked.
"Yes. She lives back of the waffle place."
"We don't want to make a racket there. There'll be a merchants' patrol and…"
"We'll telephone her and tell her we're coming," Mason said. "That is, I'll tell her I'm coming. I'll introduce you two after we get there."
"Has it ever occurred to you," Drake asked slowly, "that this marriage ceremony was taking place at just about the time Ashton was being murdered in his room, thereby giving both Oafley and Edith DeVoe ironclad alibis?"
"A lot has occurred to me," Mason said, "that I'm not discussing right now. Let's go."
They piled into Drake's car. Mason stopped the car once to telephone Winifred he was coming, and then, when Drake had parked the car in front of the Waffle Kitchen, motioned them to silence as he placed them in the shadows near the doorway, while he stood in front of the plateglass door, and pounded with his knuckles.
A moment later he saw a bit of diffused light come from the door at the end of the passageway, and then Winifred's supple figure, attired in a flowing silk negligee, glided toward him. She shot the bolt and opened the door.
"What is it?" she asked.
Mason said, "You know Paul Drake. He was with me the first time I came here, and this is Della Street, my secretary."
Winifred gave a little exclamation of dismay. "I didn't know I was to meet people," she said, "and I don't want anyone to know about…"
"That's all right," Mason told her. "No one knows anything at all. We want to talk with you."
He pushed the door open, then when his companions had entered, carefully closed it. Winifred led the way down the corridor to the bedroom, which apparently was just as Perry Mason had last seen it, except that the bed had been slept in.
"Where's Douglas Keene?" Mason asked.
She frowned, and said, "I told you all that I knew about him."
"I don't want you to think I'm betraying any confidences," Mason told her, "but it's necessary that these people know what's happening, because they've got to help us. Paul Drake is a detective who works for me, and Della Street is my secretary, who knows everything that goes on. You can absolutely trust their discretion. Now I want to know where Douglas Keene is."
She blinked her eyesrapidly, as though about to cry, but faced them steadily, saying, "I don't know where he is; all I know is he sent me a message saying that he was going to leave, where no one would ever find him."
"Let's take a look at the message."
She pulled back the pillow, and produced an envelope on the outside of which her name had been written. There was no other writing on the envelope, no address and no stamp. She opened the envelope and took from it a folded piece of paper. After a moment's hesitation, she handed the paper to Perry Mason.
Mason, standing near the center of the room, his feet spread wide apart, shoulders squared, read the message with expressionless features. When he had finished, he said, "I'm going to read this aloud," and then read in a monotone: "'Darling: I am up against a combination of circumstances I can't beat. I lost my head and made a mistake, and I'll never have any opportunity to rectify that mistake. Please believe that I'm innocent of any crime, but you'll need lots of faith to hold that belief in the face of the evidence which will be presented. I am going out of your life forever. The police will never catch me. I am far too clever to walk into the traps which catch the ordinary fugitive from justice. I'll travel by plane, and no one will ever find me. Ashton had the Koltsdorf diamonds concealed in his crutch. He had hollowed out a hiding place for them. The diamonds are still there. Give the police an anonymous tip and let them trace the crutch. I shall always love you, but I am not going to drag your name through the mire of a murder trial. Try and make Ashton talk. He can tell a lot. Lovingly yours— Douglas. "
Mason stared steadily at the letter for a while, then suddenly whirled to face Winifred Laxter.
"You didn't show me that note when I was here before," he said.
"No, I didn't have it."
"When did you get it?"
"It was slipped under the door."
"After I left?"
"Yes, I guess so. It must have been if you didn't see it there when you went out."
"You said Douglas had telephoned you."
"Yes."
"He didn't tell you this about the diamonds over the telephone?"
"No."
"How did he know where the diamonds were?"
"I don't know; I only know what's in the note."
"You love him?"
"Yes."
"Were engaged to him."
"We were going to be married."
"You didn't call him Douglas."
"What do you mean?"
"You had some pet name for him."
She lowered her eyes, and flushed.
"And," Mason went on, "when you didn't call him by that pet name, you still didn't call him Douglas—you called him Doug."
"Does that make any difference?" she countered.
"Simply this!" Mason said. "If Douglas had written that note to you, he'd have signed it 'Doug' or some pet name, and it would have been a lot more tragic. There'd have been some affectionate stuff in it, and he'd have told you goodby, and that he loved you. That note wasn't written for you; it was written for the public. That was a note that was given you to show people."
She was watching him with wide eyes, her lips compressed tightly together, as though she were trying to keep from whimpering or letting some damaging statement escape her.
"That note's a blind. Douglas telephoned you, and told you he was in a jam. He wouldn't leave without seeing you. He came to say goodby. You talked him into staying. You told him you'd employed me, and I was going to clear things up. You asked him to stay; he refused. You asked him if he wouldn't at least stay where you could keep in touch with him until after I'd made a complete investigation."
Her face gave no faintest flicker of expression, but she clenched her right fist, slowly brought it up until the muscles were pressing tightly against her lips.
"And so," Mason went on inexorably, "Douglas Keene agreed to stay within reach until the police had uncovered all of the facts, and I had tried to explain those facts in such a way as to establish his innocence. But you wanted to throw the police off the trail; so Douglas Keene left this note that you were to give to me, and later on intended to give to the newspaper reporters."
Mason pointed a rigid forefinger at her. "Speak up," he said, "don't lie to your lawyer. How the hell can I help you if you start concealing facts?"
"No," she said, "that's not true. That's… Oh!"
She dropped on the edge of the bed and started to cry.
Mason strode to the closet door, jerked it open, went to the room which contained the shower, opened the door, and looked about in that room. He frowned thoughtfully, shook his head, and said, "She's too wise to have him where the officers would be apt to look. Paul, get busy and see if there isn't a storeroom around here where boxes and stuff are kept."
Mason strode to the bed, jerked back the covers, felt of them and nodded. "Just one blanket," he said. "She's taken off some of the blankets to give him."
Della Street cros
sed to Winifred's side, put her arm around the girl's shoulder and said soothingly, "Can't you understand, dear, he's trying to help you? He's only being gruff because time is precious, and he must know the facts before he can plan his campaign."
Winifred slid her head over on Della Street 's shoulder and began to sob.
"Won't you tell us?" Della asked.
Winifred shook her head, rolling it from side to side on Della Street 's shoulder.
Mason strode out of the door to the corridor which ran between booths and lunch counter, peered about him, then crossed behind the lunch counter and started looking into the corners and down under the counter.
Paul Drake had explored a side passageway. Suddenly he gave a shrill whistle. "Here it is, Perry."
Winifred screamed, jumped to her feet, and ran the length of the passageway, her robe billowing out behind her. Mason, walking rapidly, covered the space almost as quickly as the running girl. Della Street, moving at a more leisurely pace, brought up the rear.
A door was open. It showed a litter of broken boxes, old barrels, some cans of paint, a few surplus stores, broken chairs and various odds and ends which had accumulated from the operation of the waffle kitchen. A space near one corner had been cleaned out, and broken packing cases and chairs piled in such a manner as to conceal it. On the floor were spread two blankets and a pillow made by stuffing papers into a flour sack. A sheet was pinned to the blanket.
Paul Drake's flashlight threw brilliant light into the corner, and held the square of note paper in the center of its beam.
"A note," he said, "pinned on that blanket."
Winifred made a dive for the note. Perry Mason's rigid right arm thrust in front of her held her back.
"Just a minute, sister," he said. "You take too many liberties with the truth. I'll read this one first."
The note was a scrawl, as though it had been penciled in the dark. It read:
"I can't do it, Winnie, dear. Probably they'd never find me. But if they did it would make it tough on you. I'd feel that I was hiding behind you as a shield. Perhaps if things come out all right I'll get in touch with you. But I know they'll be watching you and watching your mail, so you won't hear anything from me for a while. Lots of love and kisses to you, sweetheart. Your own Doug."
Mason read the note out loud, folded it and said to Della Street, "Catch her, quick. She's going to faint."
Winifred sagged toward Della Street 's protecting arm, then straightened. Her eyes were wan and pathetic. "I shouldn't have left him alone," she said. "I should have known he'd do that."
Perry Mason moved toward the door, kicked aside a broken packing case, walked down the passageway, entered Winifred's room, picked up a telephone and dialed a number. "I want to talk with District Attorney Burger," he said.
After a moment he said, "It's Perry Mason talking. I've got to see him on a matter of importance. Where can I reach him?"
The receiver made squawking noises, and Perry Mason, with an exclamation of disgust, hung up the receiver. He dialed another number, and said, "Police Headquarters?… Is Sergeant Holcomb where you can put him on the phone?… Hello, Sergeant Holcomb? This is Perry Mason… Yes, I know it's late… No, it isn't past my bedtime. If you're trying to be funny, you can skip it, and if you're wisecracking you can go to hell. I rang up to tell you that I personally will guarantee Douglas Keene will surrender to the police at five o'clock tonight… No, not at Police Headquarters. That would give you a chance to pick him up en route, and claim he was a fugitive from justice. I'll telephone you from some place which I'll select. You can come there and pick him up. Don't try to keep the information from the newspapers, because I'm going to tell them… Yes, I'll surrender him at five o'clock …"
Winifred Laxter lunged toward the telephone. "No, no!" she screamed. "No! You can't…"
Perry Mason pushed her away. " Five o'clock," he said, and hung up.
Della Street held one of the girl's arms. Paul Drake held the other. She was wrestling with them, her eyes fastened on Perry Mason's face with an expression of stark fear.
"You can't do it!" she screamed. "You mustn't. You…"
"I said I'd do it," Perry Mason said slowly, "and, by God, I will."
"You're selling us out."
"I'm selling no one out. You wanted me to represent him. All right, I'm going to represent him. The boy's made a fool of himself. He's just a kid. He got stampeded into running away. Someone's doublecrossed him. I'm going to put him back on the right track.
"He'll read the newspaper. He'll read that I'm representing him. He'll read that I've personally guaranteed to surrender him into custody at five o'clock tonight. He'll know I'm acting for you. He'll come in and give himself up."
"Chief," Della Street pleaded, "suppose he shouldn't get in touch with you, suppose he should read that in the paper and still keep in hiding?"
Perry Mason shrugged his shoulders. "Come on," he said to Paul Drake. "We'd better get up to the office. Newspaper reporters are going to ask us questions."
He turned to Della Street. "You stay here until that girl gets quieted down. Don't let her have hysterics, and don't let her make a fool of herself. As soon as you can leave her, come up to the office."
Della Street, clicking her heels together, made a mock military salute. "Okay, Chief," she said.
She turned to Winifred Laxter. "Come on, baby, snap out of it."
"I'm ssssnapped out of it," Winifred said, fighting back tears. "Mind your own ddddamned bbbbusiness, and gggo on up to his office."
Chapter 12
The electric lights gave a sickly pale illumination to Perry Mason's office. It was that hour of the morning when the concrete caverns of the city cliff dwellers appear to the greatest disadvantage. Outside was the freshness of early dawn, contrasting with the stale air of the office. It was some half hour before sunrise. There was only enough daylight to emphasize the inefficiency of the manmade substitute.
Perry Mason stretched out in his swivel chair, placed his heels on the corner of the desk, lighted a cigarette. "When the newspaper reporters come in, Della, keep them in the outer office and bring them in all at once."
She nodded. Her eyes showed worry.
Paul Drake moved over and sat on the edge of Perry Mason's desk.
"You and I," he said, "had better pool a little information."
Mason's eyes were expressionless. "Such as what?" he asked.
"My men tell me Edith DeVoe was killed. She was beaten over the head with a club. The club was part of a crutch which had been sawed up."
Perry Mason smoked in silence.
"Of course, I knew that you had something in mind when you went up to Doug Keene's apartment. When I saw the bloodstained clothing, I knew it didn't come from the Ashton murder."
"But at that time," Mason asked, "you didn't know anything about the DeVoe murder?"
"Certainly not."
"That," Mason said, "might be a good thing to remember—in case you were questioned."
"Did you know about it?"
Mason stared steadily out of the window into the graying dawn.
After a few moments, when it became apparent he didn't intend to answer the question, Drake went on, "Do you know a man named Babson? He's an expert cabinetmaker. He does all sorts of woodwork, and, as a sideline, makes crutches."
Mason's face showed interest.
"A couple of weeks ago Ashton dropped into Babson's place. Ashton had his crutch made there. He wanted his crutch altered. He wanted a hole bored near the tip of the crutch, wanted it reinforced with metal tubing and lined with chamois skin. He wanted the metal threaded so that a cap could go on the end and the whole business be concealed under the rubber tip of the crutch."
Mason said slowly, "That's interesting."
"About three days ago," Drake went on, "Babson was questioned about that crutch business. A man who gave his name as Smith said he was representing an insurance company that was interested in Ashton's injuries. He wanted t
o know if Ashton had secured a new crutch or had any alterations made to the old one. Babson started to tell about the changes, then thought better of it and started questioning this man, Smith. Smith walked out."
"Got a description?" Mason asked tersely.
"Five foot eleven, age fortyfive, weight a hundred and eighty pounds, light felt hat, blue suit, and a peculiar scar across the face. He was driving a green Pontiac."
"When did that report come in?" Mason asked.
"The night operator handed it to me when I went past the office. It had been on my desk for some little time. One of the boys turned it in in his report."
"Good work," Mason said. "How'd he happen to call on Babson?"
"You wanted a complete checkup on Ashton, so I told the boys to go the limit. Naturally, we were interested in the place where his crutch had been made."
"Well," Mason told him, "add one more name to your list—put a tail on Jim Brandon. Find out all you can about him. See if he's been flashing any ready money lately."
"Already done," Drake said laconically. "I put a couple of men on him as soon as I got the report. Now let me ask you a few questions."
"Such as what?" Mason inquired.
"Such as where you're going to stand in this thing. Did you have to telephone the police, promising to surrender that kid?"
"Sure I had to do it," Perry Mason said with a savage impatience. "Can't you get the sketch? He's either guilty as hell or else that was a plant. If it's a plant, he can't dodge it. He's got to face it. If he tries to run away, he's going to be picked up. If the police pick him up and he's running away, he's headed for the gallows. He'll stretch hemp in spite of anything I can do. If he's guilty and surrenders and stands up like a man, faces the music, pleads guilty and tells his story to the court, I can probably get him off with life imprisonment."
"But you're gambling that he isn't guilty?" Della Street asked.
"I'm gambling, with everything I've got, that he isn't guilty."
"That's just the point, Chief," Della Street protested in hot indignation. "You're gambling too much. You're staking your professional reputation backing the play of an emotional kid about whom you know nothing."
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