"Not until Miss Celane tells me the truth."
"When will that be?"
"Not until she gets worse frightened than she is now."
Della Street frowned, then said, quickly: "Suppose we frighten her?"
Perry Mason shook his head and smiled.
"No," he said, slowly, "I don't think we'll have to."
Chapter 11
Perry Mason, thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, paced back and forth across the floor of his private office.
Frances Celane, perched in the big black leather chair which she had occupied on her first visit to the office, regarded him with eyes that moved steadily back and forth, following the pacing of the lawyer.
"Well," she said at length, "you haven't asked me anything about why I wanted to see you."
"I don't have to," he said, "I know what's happening better than you do. What I'm trying to do is to think far enough ahead so I can find the proper place to head them off."
"I'm in an awful mess," she said.
"Of course you are," he snapped, and resumed his steady pacing of the floor.
There was a period of silence, then he paused in his walk to plant his feet far apart and stare down at her.
"Where did you get that money you gave me?" he asked.
"Just as I told you before, I got the money from my uncle," she said, in a thin, weak voice.
"Before he was murdered or afterwards?" pressed Perry Mason.
"Before."
"How much before?"
"Not very much before. That is, just before Mr. Crinston came to the house."
"What happened?"
"There was fortyeight thousand dollars," she said. "He gave it to me, and told me he was sorry he'd been holding out my regular allowance. He said he'd decided to change his mind."
"Had he accused you of being blackmailed before that?"
"No."
"And he gave you this money in cash?"
"Yes."
"You came to him and told him that you needed cash?"
"I told him that I simply had to have some money and have it right away."
"And he didn't say anything about you being blackmailed?"
"No."
"Were you being blackmailed?"
She bit her lip and looked down at the floor.
"Is that any of your business?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Yes," she said, "I was being blackmailed."
"All right," he said. "Was it by the housekeeper?"
She started, and raised her eyes to his with a look of alarm.
"How did you know?"
"I suspected," he said. "How much did you give her?"
"I gave her all of it," she said. "All except the ten thousand dollars that I gave you."
"Does that mean," he said, "that you haven't any of those thousand dollar bills in your possession?"
"That's right."
"Now listen. Let's not have any misunderstanding about this, and let's get it straight. You're in a jam, and I'm going to get you out, but it's important I know exactly what happened with that money. You haven't any of it in your possession?"
"Not a bit," she said.
Perry Mason took the ten thousand dollars which she had given him from his wallet and fingered the bills.
"You knew," he asked, "that all of these bills were numbered consecutively, and that various banking institutions in this city had been given a list of those numbers?"
"No," she said in a wan, frightened voice.
"Well," he told her, "that's a fact. Thousand dollar bills aren't so numerous but what they attract attention when they're deposited, and it's almost necessary to take them to a bank to change them. Merchants don't ordinarily carry change for a thousand dollars in their tills."
Perry Mason went to the desk, picked up a long envelope of heavy manila paper, sealed the ten thousand dollars in currency in the envelope, unscrewed the cap from a fountain pen, and addressed the envelope to Carl S. Belknap, 3298 15th Street, Denver, Colorado, and jabbed his forefinger on the button on the side of his desk, which summoned his secretary.
When Della Street opened the door, Perry Mason tossed her the envelope with a careless gesture.
"Stamp and mail this," he said. "First Class."
She looked at the address.
"I didn't know we had any correspondence with a Mr. Belknap," she said.
"We have now," he told her. "Send it registered mail."
She nodded, flashed one swiftly appraising glance at Frances Celane, then slipped back through the door to the outer office.
Perry Mason turned to Frances Celane.
"All right," he said. "That envelope will be in the mail for the next few days. Eventually it will come back to me. In the meantime, nobody is going to find that money on me. Now why didn't you tell the police about that in the first place?"
Her eyes suddenly snapped black fire.
"That's my business!" she said. "I hired you as an attorney to represent my interests. Don't think that you can stand there and tell me what I'm going to do, and what I'm not going to do…"
He took a stride toward her and said: "You're either going to control that temper, or you're going to march up the gallows and have a black bag put around your neck. Did you ever think of how you would like to be hung?"
She got to her feet and drew back her hand as though she intended to slap him.
"You've been a spoiled spitfire all your life," Perry Mason told her. "Now you're facing a situation you can't handle by yourself. Just as sure as you're standing there, you're going to be arrested within the next fortyeight hours, and the case that's going to be built up against you is going to be so black that I don't know whether I can get you out of it or not."
Sheer surprise pushed her rage to one side, and showed in her dark eyes.
"Arrested? Me, arrested?"
"Arrested," he told her, "for murder."
"Devoe was arrested for murder," she said. "He's the one that did it."
"Devoe didn't do it," said Perry Mason, "any more than I did. That is, if he did do it, no one is ever going to prove it. He's got an attorney that knows the ropes, and he's going to drag you into this."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Because he was here in this office less than an hour ago and told me so."
She sank back in the chair and stared at him, all of the temper gone from her eyes, which were now dark and pathetic.
"What did he want?" she asked.
"Money," he said.
Her face showed a trace of relief.
"All right," she said. "We'll give it to him."
"We will not," he said.
"Why?"
"Because," he said, "he'd blackmail you to death. He doesn't know for sure that you are in a bad jam, but he suspects it. He wanted to make sure. If I'd talked terms with him, he'd have been sure. He's heard whispers somewhere. He wanted to verify them. If I'd given in to him on the money end of it, he'd have been sure."
"But," she asked, "what did you do?"
His voice was grim.
"I threw him out of the office," he said.
"How much does he know?" she asked.
"Not much, but he suspects a lot."
"I'm afraid of him," she said, in a voice that was almost a wail.
"You've got a right to be," he said. "Now I want to get at the bottom of this thing. Tell me exactly what happened when your uncle was murdered."
She took a deep breath and said in a low monotone, "I was in the house. I had had a quarrel with him. He had been very bitter, and I lost my temper and said things that hurt."
"You would," said the lawyer dryly.
"I did," she said, without expression.
There was a moment of silence.
"Go on," said the lawyer.
"He took some money from his wallet," she said. "It wasn't all of the money that was in there. There were some bills left. I don't know exactly how many, but he pushed the currenc
y toward me and told me to take it. He said that he had intended to cut down on my allowance to bring me to my senses, but that he'd come to the conclusion I would never come to my senses. He said it was really my money and if I wanted to throw it away, that was my business."
"So you took the money," he told her.
"Yes, of course."
"Then what?"
"Then," she said, "I gave all of it except ten thousand dollars to Mrs. Mayfield."
"Why did you do that?" he asked.
"Because she knew I had been married, and was threatening to tell my uncle about it."
"Was that before Crinston came to the house, or afterwards?"
"You mean when I gave her the money?"
"Yes."
"Afterwards."
"Who saw you give the money to her… anyone?"
"Rob Gleason."
Perry Mason whistled.
"So Gleason was there, eh?" he asked.
"Yes," she said slowly, "Gleason was there. That's why I said I wasn't there."
"All right," he said grimly, "tell me about that."
"You know that we are married," she said. "Rob drove up in his car, a Chevrolet. There's a porch which opens out from my room, and he came to that porch and I let him in. He was worried about Mrs. Mayfield and about what my uncle was going to do. I told him that I'd seen my uncle and I thought things were all right.
"While we were talking, Mrs. Mayfield came in and demanded money. She had been listening, and knew that my uncle had given me some money. She didn't know how much.
"I told her I'd give her all I had. I opened my purse and let her take it out. But, before I did that, I had ditched ten of the one thousand dollar bills, because I knew you were going to need some money, and I was saving it for you. That was all I needed money for—just you and her. I thought then that things would be all right, with you representing me, and Mrs. Mayfield keeping quiet. I thought we could work the thing out some way."
"And Crinston had arrived by that time?" asked Mason.
"Yes," she said, "he had come before that. I heard him drive up. In fact, I was leaving my uncle's office when Crinston came up."
"And Graves, the secretary, was in the outer office all the time?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes, he was there all the time, and knows pretty much what happened. He knows a lot more than he lets on. He knows a lot about my uncle's affairs, and I have an idea he knows something about what Mrs. Mayfield is doing."
"All right," said Mason, "then what happened?"
"Well," she said, "Mrs. Mayfield went out, and I went out and sat on the porch with Rob. Then there was a commotion, and I heard running steps from the front of the house, and shouts, and heard something about my uncle having been murdered. I knew that it would never do for Rob to be there, so I told Rob to get in his car and drive away."
"And you went with him?"
"Yes, I went with him."
"Why did you do that?
"Because I didn't want to be there."
"Why?"
"I thought that I could fix up an alibi for Rob."
"How did you get out of the grounds?"
"There's a way out through an alley in the back, to the driveway. We went out there, and nobody heard us, I guess."
"All right, then what happened?"
"Then I came back home; that is, I had Rob drive me to a place about two blocks from the house, and got out there. I sneaked into my bedroom and talked with Don Graves. I found out from him that my uncle had reported the Buick as having been stolen, and they thought that I was driving it. I figured that was a good alibi for me, and would let Rob out of it, so I said that I had been driving the Buick, and nobody questioned my word."
"All right. Then what happened?"
"You know the rest. Everybody took it for granted that I had been driving the Buick, and I thought everything was all right until you came and told me about the speedometer records not checking up. I went out to put some mileage on the Buick, and found an officer there, who grinned at me and told me that the Buick was going to be held for evidence."
"They'd sealed it up?" asked Perry Mason.
"Yes. They put a padlocked chain around the front axle and through the spokes of the wheel, and they'd also locked up the transmission."
"That," said Mason dryly, "makes it nice."
She said nothing.
After a moment Mason resumed his regular pacing of the floor, and the girl watched him with dark, anxious eyes, her head never moving, but the eyes following him back and forth as he paced rhythmically.
"You," he said, at length, "are going to have a nervous breakdown. I know a doctor I can count on. He's going to examine you and order you to a sanitarium."
"What good will that do?" she asked.
"It's going to give me a little time," he said.
"But won't that make them more suspicious when I run away?"
"They can't get any more suspicious," he told her. "The minute they sealed up that Buick, it showed they were working on this other angle of the case. I tried to slip that notebook containing the mileages into my pocket, and make it appear I was doing it casually; but the officer wasn't so dumb. He called me on it, and I had to put the notebook hack."
"Did you know about the mileage then?" she asked.
"I suspected it."
"How did it happen you suspected it?"
"Because I knew you'd been lying to me."
Her eyes blazed.
"Don't talk to me like that!" she said.
He simply grinned at her. After a moment the angry light left her eyes.
"You've got to figure you're trapped on that car business," he told her. "You've got to switch around on that."
"But," she said, "that's going to bring Rob into it. If they know Rob was there, that's going to make an awful mess, because there was bad blood between Rob and my uncle."
"Did Rob see your uncle the night he was murdered?" asked Mason.
She shook her head, hesitated a moment, then nodded it.
"Yes," she said, "he did."
"And the reason you changed your story just now and admitted it," he said, "is that you suddenly remembered there is someone who knows Rob saw your uncle. Who is that someone—Don Graves?"
She nodded her head again.
Perry Mason stepped to the door of the outer office.
"Della," he said, "get me Doctor Prayton on the telephone right away. Tell his nurse that it's vitally important—a matter of life and death. Get him on the telephone personally, and do it now."
"Yes," she said. "There's a Mr. Paul Drake in the office who wants to see you about a personal matter. He won't tell me what it is."
"All right," snapped Perry Mason. "Tell him to wait," and he stepped back into the office, slamming the door.
"Now," he told the girl, "you're going to have a nervous breakdown. You'll be sent to a sanitarium under another name. The police will find you sooner or later. But I want it to be later. Don't let anyone know who you are, don't show any undue interest in the newspaper reports of the case, and, no matter what happens, don't get stampeded."
She stared at him searchingly.
"How do I know I can trust you?" she asked.
He met her gaze with a steady stare.
"That's one of the things you can use your own judgment about," he said, "and it's going to make a hell of a lot of difference what you do."
"All right," she told him, "I'm going to trust you."
He nodded.
"Under those circumstances," he said, "I'll order the ambulance right now before Doc Prayton gets here."
Chapter 12
Paul Drake, the detective, bore no resemblance whatever to the popular conception of a private detective, which was, perhaps, why he was so successful.
He was a tall man, with a long neck that was thrust forward inquiringly. His eyes were protruding, and glassy, and held a perpetual expression of droll humor. Nothing ever fazed him. In his life, murders were everyday
occurrences; love nests as common as automobiles, and hysterical clients merely part of an everyday routine.
He sat in the big highbacked leather chair in Perry Mason's office, and turned sideways, so that his long legs were crossed over the right hand arm of the chair. A cigarette was in his mouth, hanging pendulously at an angle from his lower lip.
Perry Mason, seated back of the big desk, stared at the detective with patient eyes that were calmly watchful. His manner was that of a veteran fighter relaxed in his corner, waiting for the sounding of the gong. He looked like a man who would presently lose his relaxed watchfulness, spring from the chair, and engage in swift conflict, with the ferocity of a tiger.
"Well," said Drake, "what's eating you?"
"Awhile back," said Perry Mason, "you were telling me something about a rough shadow."
Paul Drake inhaled placidly on his cigarette. His glassy, protruding eyes watched Perry Mason with an expression of quizzical humor.
"You must have a good memory," he said. "That was a long time ago."
"Never mind when it was," Mason told him. "I want to get the lowdown on it."
"Somebody trying it on you?" asked the detective.
"No," said Mason. "But I have an idea I can use it! Give me the sketch."
Paul Drake removed the cigarette from his mouth, pinched it out, and dropped it into an ashtray.
"It's a stunt in detective work," he said. "We don't ordinarily talk about it—not to outsiders, anyway. It's a psychological third degree. It's predicated on the idea that a man who has something on his mind that he's trying to conceal, is likely to be nervous."
"How does it work?" Mason asked tonelessly.
"Well, let's figure that you're working on a case, and you figure somebody has got some knowledge—not just ordinary knowledge, but a sort of guilty knowledge that he's trying to conceal. You've got two or three ways of approaching him in order to get him to spill the beans. One of them is to use the routine stunt of getting an attractive woman to get acquainted with him, and start him boasting. Another one is to plant some man who becomes friendly with him, and gets his confidence.
"Usually one of those ways works out. But sometimes they don't work. Sometimes a man won't fall for a woman, or, if he does, won't start boasting, and he'll get suspicious if one of your operatives starts getting friendly with him. That's when we use the rough shadow. It takes two men to work a rough shadow job. First, you have your contact man who makes a contact with the suspect, but can't seem to get under his hide, can't get him to talk.
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