"There's a Mrs. Mayfield out here," Della Street told him, "and I have an idea you'd better see her while the seeing is good."
Perry Mason nodded.
"Send her in," he said, "and make it snappy. There'll probably be a police detective following on her trail. Stall him off just as long as you can."
The girl nodded, opened the door, and beckoned to the woman who sat in the outer office.
As the broad form of Mrs. Mayfield hulked in the doorway, Perry Mason saw his secretary blocking as much of the passage as possible. Then, as the door was closing behind the housekeeper, he heard Della Street 's voice saying: "I'm very sorry, but Mr. Mason is in an important conference right now and can't be disturbed."
Perry Mason nodded to Mrs. Mayfield, got up, crossed the office and turned the lock on the door.
"Good morning, Mrs. Mayfield," he said.
She stared at him in blackeyed belligerency.
"Good morning!" she snapped.
Perry Mason indicated the black leather chair, and Mrs. Mayfield sat down in it, her back very stiff and her chin thrust forward.
"What's this about the speedometer being set back on the Buick automobile?" she asked.
There was the sound of scuffling motion from the outer office, then the noise of bodies pushing against the door, and the knob of the door twisted. The lock held it shut, and Perry Mason kept his eyes fastened on Mrs. Mayfield, holding her attention away from the noise at the door.
"Mr. Norton," said the lawyer, "reported the Buick automobile as having been stolen. At the time, we thought that Miss Celane was driving it. Now it appears that she was not. Therefore, the Buick must have been gone at the time Norton reported its theft to the police. However, we have the mileage record of the car, and it shows that he returned it to his house at 15,304.7 miles.
"That means the person who was using it the night of the murder must have either set the speedometer back or disconnected the speedometer when he took it out."
Mrs. Mayfield shook her head.
"The car wasn't out," she said.
"Are you certain?" he asked.
"Purkett, the butler," she said, "sleeps right over the garage. He was lying awake in bed, reading, and he'd have heard anyone take a car out. He says that the garage doors were closed, and that no car went out."
"Could he have been mistaken?" pressed Mason.
"No," she snapped. "The doors make a noise when they're opened. It sounds very loud up in the room over the garage. Purkett would have heard it, and I want an explanation of this crack that you made to my husband about me being in the room when the murder…"
"Forget that for a minute," Mason interrupted. "We're talking about the car, and our time's short. I can't do any business with you unless I can prove that speedometer was set back."
She shook her head emphatically.
"You can't do any business with me anyway," she said. "You've got things in a fine mess."
"How do you mean?"
"You've handled things in such a way that the police have dragged Frances Celane into it."
The black eyes snapped at him in beady indignation, and then suddenly filmed with moisture.
"You mean you're the one that got Frances Celane into it," said Mason, getting to his feet and facing her accusingly. "You started it by blackmailing her about her marriage, and then you wanted more blackmail to keep her out of this murder business."
The glittering black eyes now showed globules of moisture.
"I wanted money," said Mrs. Mayfield, losing her air of belligerency. "I knew it was an easy way to get it. I knew that Frances Celane was going to have plenty. I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't have some of it. When she hired you, I knew you were going to get plenty of money, and I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't have some.
"All my life I've been a working woman. I've married a husband who is a clod, and hasn't ambition or sense enough to come in out of the rain. All my life I've had to take responsibilities. When I was a girl I had to support my family. After I was married, I had to furnish all the ambition to keep the family going. For years I've waited on Frances Celane. I've seen her live the life of a spoiled lady of leisure. I've had to slave my fingers to the bone doing housework and seeing that she had her breakfast in bed, and I'm tired of it. I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't have some money too. I wanted lots of money. I wanted people to wait on me. I was willing to do anything to get the money, except to get Frances into real trouble.
"Now I can't do anything about it. The police cornered me and made me talk, and they're going to arrest Frances Celane for murder. For murder! Do you understand?"
Her voice rose almost to a shriek.
There was an imperative pounding on the door of the office.
"Open up in there!" gruffed a voice from the outside.
Perry Mason paid no attention to the commotion at the door, but kept his eyes fixed upon Mrs. Mayfield.
"If it would help clear up this mystery," he said, "do you think you could find someone who would testify that the car was taken out and that the speedometer was either disconnected or set back?"
"No," she said, "that car didn't go out."
Mason started pacing the floor.
The knocking at the outer door was redoubled in intensity. Someone shouted: "This is a police detective. Open up that door!"
Suddenly Mason laughed aloud.
"What a fool I've been!" he said.
The housekeeper blinked back the tears and stared at him with wide eyes.
"Of course," said Mason, "that car didn't leave the garage. No car left the garage." And he smacked his fist down upon his palm.
He whirled to the housekeeper.
"If you want to do something for Frances Celane," he said, "talk with Purkett again, and in detail. Go over the case with him and strengthen his recollection so that, no matter what happens, he can't be shaken in his testimony."
"You want him to say that the car didn't leave the garage?" asked the housekeeper.
"I want him to tell the truth," said Perry Mason. "But I want him to tell it with sufficient firmness so that he won't be rattled on the witness stand by a lot of lawyers. That's all I want him to testify to—just the fact that the car did not leave the garage at any time on that night; that the garage doors were closed, and that they remained closed, and that no person could have taken a car from the garage without his hearing it."
"Well," she said, "that's the truth. That's what he says."
"All right," he told her, "if you want to do Frances Celane a favor, you get to him and see that no pressure on earth can change that testimony of his."
"I'll do it," she said.
He asked hastily: "What did you tell the police about getting money from Frances Celane?"
"Nothing," she said. "I told them that she gave you money but I didn't know how much, or whether it was in large bills or small bills."
The door creaked under the weight of a body which had been thrown against it.
Perry Mason walked to it, snapped back the lock, and opened the door.
"What the hell do you mean," he demanded, "by trying to bust into my private office?"
A burly man with square shoulders, thick neck and scowling forehead, pushed his way into the room.
"I told you who I was," he said. "I'm a police detective."
"I don't care if you're Mussolini," said Perry Mason. "You can't break into my office."
"The hell I can't," said the detective. "I'm taking this woman into custody."
Mrs. Mayfield gave a little scream.
"On what charge?" asked Perry Mason.
"As a material witness in a murder case," said the detective.
Mason remarked: "Well, you didn't get the urge to take her into custody as a material witness until after she came to this office."
"What do you mean?" asked the detective.
"Exactly what I say," said Mason. "You sat outside and watched this office until you saw Mrs. Mayfield come
in. Then you telephoned your superior for instructions, and he told you to pick her up as a material witness before she had a chance to talk with me."
"Pretty smooth, ain't you?" sneered the detective.
Mrs. Mayfield stared from one to the other and said: "But I haven't done anything."
"That ain't the question, ma'am," said the detective. "It's a question of keeping you as a material witness where you won't be annoyed or inconvenienced."
"And," sneered Perry Mason, "where you won't have a chance to talk with anybody except representatives of the District Attorney's office."
The detective glowered at Perry Mason.
"And we understand," he said, "that you received ten one thousand dollar bills that were stolen from the body of Edward Norton."
"Is that so?" said Mason.
"That's so," snapped the detective.
"Just where do you think those bills are?" asked the lawyer.
"We don't know, but we intend to find out," the detective told him.
"Well," said Mason, "it is a free country, or it used to be once. Go ahead and find out."
"When we do," said the detective, "you're likely to find yourself facing a charge of receiving stolen property."
"Well, you've only got three things to do," said Mason.
"What three things?" asked the detective.
"Prove that the money was stolen, prove that I received it, and prove that I knew it was stolen when I received it."
"You know it's stolen now."
"How do I know it's stolen?"
"Because I've told you it was. You're on notice."
"In the first place," said Mason, "I'm not admitting that I have any ten thousand dollars. In the second place, I wouldn't take your word for anything."
The detective turned to Mrs. Mayfield.
"Come along, ma'am," he said, "we'll handle this lawyer later."
"But I don't want to go," she said.
"It's orders, ma'am," he told her. "You won't be annoyed. We're simply going to keep you where you'll be safe until after we can get your testimony."
Perry Mason watched the pair depart from his private office. His rugged face was expressionless, but there was a glint of smouldering hostility in his patient eyes.
When the door of the outer office had closed, Perry Mason walked to his secretary's desk and said: "Della, I want you to ring up the STAR. Tell them who you are. They've got a reporter there named Harry Nevers. He knows who I am. Tell the city editor to have Nevers come and see me. I'll see that he gets some sensational news."
She reached for the telephone.
"You want me to tell that to the city editor?" she asked.
"Yes," he told her. "I want Nevers sent here right away."
"You don't want to talk with the editor?"
"No, he'd plug a rewrite man in on the line, listen to what I had to say, call it an interview, and let it go at that. I want you to tell them who you are, tell them to send Nevers over here for a hot yarn. They'll try to pump you about what it is. Tell them you don't know, and that I'm not available."
She nodded and lifted the receiver from the hook. Perry Mason walked back to his private office and closed the door.
Chapter 15
Harry Nevers was tall and thin, with eyes that looked at the world with a bored expression. His hair was in need of trimming, and his face had that oily appearance which comes to one who has gone long without sleep. He looked as though he had been up all night, and had, as a matter of fact, been up for two.
He walked into Perry Mason's office and perched himself on the arm of the big black leather chair.
"I'm going to give you a break," said Perry Mason, "and I want a favor."
Nevers spoke in a dull monotone of lowvoiced comment.
"Sure," he said. "I had that all figured out a long time ago. Where is she?"
"Where's who?" asked Mason.
"Frances Celane."
"Who wants to know?"
"I do."
"What's the big idea?"
Nevers yawned and slid back over the arm of the chair, so that he was seated crosswise in the chair.
"Hell," he said, "don't try to surprise me. That's been tried by experts. I doped out the play as soon as I got the call. There was nothing to it. Frances Celane had a nervous breakdown and was rushed to a sanitarium. Last night the District Attorney uncovered evidence which made him decide to put a first degree murder rap on her. She was secretly married to a chap named Gleason. They've picked up Gleason, and they're getting ready to go after Frances Celane.
"You're Frances Celane's attorney. You've got her under cover somewhere. It's a cover that's deep enough to keep her from walking into a trap until you're ready to have her surrender. But you can't keep her under cover when the newspapers broadcast that she's wanted for murder. You've got a doctor mixed up in it, and a hospital. They wouldn't stand for it, even if you wanted them to. So it's a cinch you've got to turn her up, and you just picked on me to get the news, because you wanted something. Now tell me what you want, and I'll tell you whether we'll make a trade."
Perry Mason frowned thoughtfully, and made little drumming noises with his fingertips on the edge of the desk.
"I don't know what I want, Harry," he said.
Harry Nevers shook his head lugubriously.
"With the hardboiled bunch I'm working for, brother, if you don't know what you want, you're never going to get it. If you're going to make a trade you've got to make a trade right now."
"Well," said Perry Mason slowly, "I can tell you generally what I want. Somewhere along the line I'm going to try to get two or three people back at the Norton residence, under conditions that were similar to those which existed at the time of the murder. I don't know just how I'm going to do it. Somewhere along the line I'm going to make a point about the fact that the Buick automobile, which was reported stolen, wasn't taken out of the garage. All I want you to do is to see that I get a reasonable amount of publicity on those two points."
"Wait a minute," said Nevers, speaking in that same dull monotone, "you said you were going to make a point that the Buick car hadn't been taken out of the garage. You mean that you're going to claim that it was taken out, but the speedometer was either disconnected or set back, ain't that right?"
"No," Mason told him. "I'm going to make a point that it wasn't taken out of the garage."
For the first time since he had entered the office, the voice of Harry Nevers showed a trace of interest; a touch of tone.
"That's going to be a funny angle for you to play," he said.
"All right," said Mason, "we'll talk about that when the time comes. I'm just telling you now what I want. The question is, do we make a trade?"
"I think so," said Nevers.
"Have you got a photographer lined up?"
"Sure. He's down in the car waiting, and I've got a space held on the front page for a picture."
Perry Mason reached for the telephone on his desk, took down the receiver, and said to Della Street, in a low voice:
"Get Doctor Prayton on the line. Find out what sanitarium he put Frances Celane in. Get him to make out a discharge from the sanitarium, and telephone it over. Tell him that Frances Celane is going to be charged with murder, and I don't want him to get mixed up in it. Get the telephone number of the sanitarium, and after he's telephoned in the discharge, get Frances Celane on the line for me."
He hung up the telephone.
"Now listen," said Nevers earnestly, "would you do me a favor?"
"What is it?" asked Mason cautiously. "I thought I was doing you one. You're getting exclusive photographs and all that."
"Don't be so cagey," Nevers told him. "I was just asking an ordinary favor."
"What is it?"
Nevers straightened up slightly in the chair, and said in his low monotone: "Get that jane to show a little leg. This is a picture that's going to make the front page, and I want to have a lot of snap about it. Maybe we'll take a closeup of he
r face for the front page, with a leg picture on the inside page. But I want to take back some photographs that have got a little leg in them."
"Well," said Perry Mason, "why not tell her so? You can be frank with her."
"I'm going to be frank with her all right," said Nevers. "but you're her lawyer, and she'll have confidence in you; Sometimes we have a little trouble getting these janes to pose right when they're excited. I want you to see that I get a break."
"Okay," Mason told him, "I'll do the best I can."
Harry Nevers took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and looked appraisingly at the attorney.
"If we could get her to come down to the STAR office and surrender herself to our custody," he said, "we'd see that she got a better break."
Mason's tone was firm.
"No," he said, "you're going to get the exclusive story and photographs. That's the best I can give you. She's going to surrender to the District Attorney, and I want to be sure there isn't any misunderstanding about that. In other words, I want the newspaper account to tell the public the truth."
Nevers yawned and looked at the telephone.
"Okay," he said. "I wonder if your secretary's got the calls through yet…"
The telephone rang, and Mason took down the receiver. He heard Frances Celane's voice, eager and excited, at the other end of the line.
"What is it?" she asked. "They won't let me have newspapers here."
"All right," said Mason. "The show's starting."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"They've arrested Rob Gleason for murder." He heard her gasp, and went on, "They've identified the club that killed Edward Norton. It was a walking stick that belonged to Rob Gleason."
"Rob Gleason never did it," she replied swiftly. "He called on my uncle, and they had quite an argument. He left that walking stick in Uncle's study, and…"
"Never mind that," interrupted Perry Mason. "There's a chance this line is tapped. They may have detectives listening in on us. You can tell me when you get here. I want you to get in a taxicab and come to the office right away, prepared to surrender yourself for murder."
"You mean they're going to arrest me too?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm going to surrender you into custody."
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