She clutched her hand to her throat.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "Do you suppose…?"
"Give me the lowdown," he interrupted. "What happened after I left?"
"Nothing very much. They asked me a few questions. I had hysterics."
"What did you tell them?"
"I told them the truth at first—that I had wanted to see my husband about a matter of business, that I went into the outer office and found Hazel Fenwick lying on the floor; that I worked with her and brought her to consciousness, and then she told a story of a man with an empty eye socket, running from the room where my husband had his office."
"Did they ask you why you didn't call your husband?"
"I told them that I was so engrossed thinking of Hazel Fenwick, and trying to bring her to consciousness, that I'd forgotten about my husband."
Mason made a grimace of disgust.
"What's wrong with that?"
"Everything," he said. "What happened after that?"
"Then," she said, "they started getting a little nasty and I became hysterical and lied to them."
"What did you lie to them about?"
"Everything. I told them I knew my husband had gone out, and then I told them I knew he hadn't gone out. They asked me if I knew anyone who had an artificial eye, and I told them my husband had an artificial eye. I laughed and screamed, and they called a doctor and I wouldn't let him touch me. I insisted that Dick call my own physician and then when he came out, he sized up the situation and gave me a hypo and sent me to my room."
"Then what?"
"Dick scouted around until he found a back way unguarded and then he came and got me. I was pretty groggy from the hypo, but I managed to walk, keeping an arm on his shoulder. He took me here and put me to bed. I woke up early this morning and telephoned him, using an assumed name so the police wouldn't know who it was—but, if they were listening over the switchboard—my heavens!"
"Did you make any admissions?" Mason asked.
"No. I didn't have anything to admit, except about the hysterics."
"What about the hysterics?"
"He asked me if I'd told the police anything, and I told him no, that my hysterics completely fooled them."
"Anything else?"
"I talked with him two or three times today."
"Make any admissions?"
"Well, I talked pretty freely with him, but I didn't make any damaging admissions."
"Did he?" Mason asked.
"He told me he was glad my husband was dead. Dick had hated him bitterly for some time."
"Now, listen," Mason told her. "You can't stall the police the next time they start questioning you. So you've got to get your story in order. How about the gun?"
"I'll tell them the truth, that I gave it to Dick to protect me with."
"Was that the gun that was used in the killing?"
"I don't know."
"How about Brunold?"
"I don't know any Brunold."
"You should," Mason said. "He's the father of your child."
She clutched at the edge of the table.
"What!" she exclaimed.
Mason nodded and said, "I found out that much through my own detectives. The police can find it out just as easily as I did, providing Brunold hasn't told them already. Brunold has been taken into custody."
"Even Dick doesn't know," she said.
"Does he suspect?"
"I don't think so."
"Brunold was out at the house last night?"
"No."
"Tell me the truth."
"Yes."
"What time did he leave?"
"Do I have to tell the police this?"
"I can't tell yet."
"He left just before I discovered Hazel Fenwick unconscious."
"What were you doing in your husband's outer office?"
"I went down there to see if Hazel had fixed things up with Hartley. She had been gone a long time and I was worried."
"Brunold was with you just before you went down?"
"Yes."
"Had he been with you all the time?"
"No, not all the time. I'd gone to my bedroom and left him in my sitting room. I think he stepped into the corridor for something. He wasn't there when I came back, but he came in after a few moments."
"You knew Hazel Fenwick was going down to see your husband?"
"Oh, yes. I wanted her to."
"Was it Brunold's eye your husband was holding in his hand?"
"I think it was."
"How long have you known Hazel Fenwick?"
"Not very long."
"Is there something phoney about this Fenwick woman?" Mason asked.
"I can't tell you that."
"You mean you won't. Is there something phoney about this marriage to Dick?"
"I don't know. She came to the house for the first time the night of the murder. Dick's Hartley's heir. Hartley wanted to control Dick's marriage. I knew there'd be a scene when he found out. I wanted her to tell him. I thought she'd make a good impression."
"How many at the house knew she was married to Dick?"
"None of them. Overton, the chauffeur, brought her to the house from the station. He thought she was a friend of mine. Edith Brite, the housekeeper, might have suspected, but I don't think so. Those were the only ones at the house who had seen her."
"Did you see Harry McLane last night?"
"No."
"Look here," Mason said; "every once in a while you tell me a lie. It's poor policy to lie to your lawyer. It might put you in a tough spot. Now, did you see Harry McLane last night?"
"No," she said defiantly.
"Do you know if he was out at the house?"
"He might have seen Hartley but I don't think so."
"Someone was in Hartley's office when this Fenwick woman knocked on the door. Who was that?"
"That," she said, "is something I can't understand. I wanted Hazel to have a clear field, so I watched the entrance door and waited until the last client had gone. Then I told Hazel the coast was clear and went as far as the entrance room with her. If someone was in the office with Hartley it must have been someone who came in through the back door."
"Well," Mason said, "did Harry McLane know about the back door?"
"Oh, yes."
"How about Pete Brunold?"
She hesitated a moment and then said slowly, "Pete knew about it, too. That is, sometimes he'd come in my side of the house through the back door. The two back doors are right together… Now you can't say I'm not telling you the truth."
Mason stared at her grimly and said, "I'm not saying anything, but I'm doing a lot of thinking. Was Pete Brunold with you all the time he was out at the house the night of the murder?"
"Not all the time."
"Where was he?"
"He thought Overton, the chauffeur, was spying on us. He thought Overton had been snooping around my room, and he went out to try and locate Overton."
"Did he do it?"
"No, he couldn't find Overton anywhere. He said he looked all over the house."
"When was this?"
"Just before I took Hazel down to Hartley's office."
Mason said slowly, "Look here, do you want to protect Pete Brunold or do you want to save your skin?"
"I want to protect Pete with my life."
"Don't ever forget," Mason warned her, "that you're in this thing yourself. You can't protect anyone unless you're in the clear, and unless you know and I know exactly what happened. I won't protect Brunold if he's guilty and I won't protect you if you're guilty. Now, Brunold was wandering around the house somewhere about the time the murder was committed. You say that he was looking for Overton. He might have met your husband and…"
"Look out," Paul Drake said, "just below you, Perry."
Perry Mason started polishing the window, glancing downward beneath his right armpit.
Sergeant Holcomb's frowning face was thrust out of the window directly be
low.
"This is the blowoff," Mason said. "Tell the police you came here for a rest, that you're ready to go back with them. If you didn't kill your husband and want to protect Brunold, refuse to answer any questions. If you want to protect yourself; tell them the God's truth. If Brunold's guilty, he'd better plead guilty. If you did kill your husband, and it wasn't justified, get another lawyer. If you're guilty of murder and you lie to me, I'll quit you cold; otherwise I'll stay with you until hell freezes."
"We're innocent," she said frantically. "Pete has been justified…"
"Hey, you, up there!" shouted Sergeant Holcomb. "Who told you to wash these windows?"
Mason mumbled an inaudible reply.
"Look around," Holcomb yelled. "I want to get a look at your face."
Mason turned around in such a manner that he kicked the bucket of water over. Sergeant Holcomb saw the water coming, but dodged too late. Some of the liquid splashed in his eyes and face as the bucket hurtled past. He jerked his head back in. Mason grabbed Paul Drake's extended hand, jumped to the adjoining sill, held himself precariously balanced for a moment, then slid down into the room.
"We can," Paul Drake said, "take the fire escape down to the second floor."
"Swell, if they aren't waiting for us at the second floor," the lawyer told him.
The two men opened the door of the room which led to the corridor. They stepped into the corridor turned to the left, and through the window which opened on the fire escape. The broadshouldered detective, still standing in the corridor where he could watch the door of Mrs. Basset's room glowered at them thoughtfully, took three purposeful steps toward them, and then hesitated.
Perry Mason called to Paul Drake in a loud voice, "Empty the buckets, Paul. We can fill them up from a faucet on the lower floor. We've got to get the rail on this fire escape cleaned up."
Drake nodded. The two men raced down the fire escape. They had gained the second floor, when there was a shout from above them. Sergeant Holcomb appeared on the fire escape, wildly waving his hands.
"Here," Mason said, "is where we take a transfer."
He dove through the open window to the second floor corridor and raced down the corridor. At the head of the stairs he slipped off the white uniform which he had out on over his business suit. Paul Drake, fumbling with a button of the white coveralls, delayed matters somewhat. Mason reached out, ripped off the button, and helped pull the uniform off.
"We've got just one chance," Mason said. "We've got to go up."
He walked to the elevator, the white bundle under his arm, and pressed the «up» button.
"If we have luck," he said, "we can…"
A light glowed, a door slid smoothly back. Mason and Drake entered the elevator, just as an adjoining elevator, coming down from the sixth floor, stopped, and its door slid open. Sergeant Holcomb ran into the corridor.
"Floors?" asked the elevator boy, as he slid the door shut.
"Top floor," Mason said.
As the elevator shot upward, Mason said conversationally, "A roof garden, isn't there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine," Mason said. "We'll go out there and sit down for a while."
He left the elevator at the top floor, led the way to the roof garden, tossed the white uniforms behind a potted plant, and said, "Have you got that passkey, Paul?"
"Sure."
"Get it ready," Mason said, leading the way to the room corridor.
He picked an inside room, knocked on the door. There was no answer. He nodded to Drake. The detective turned the key in the lock. The door opened, the two men entered, and Mason twisted the knurled brass knob which shot the bolt into position. He took a cigarette case from his pocket, tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail, and grinned at the detective.
"Well," he said, "we're still out of jail."
"How the devil are we going to get out of this?" Drake asked, his face lugubrious.
Mason stretched out on the bed, pulled up pillows back of his head, blew smoke up toward the ceiling. His face was wreathed in a smile of serene satisfaction.
"They'll think we're playing tag in the corridors," he said. "After a half an hour or so, when they can't find us, they'll think we got down the freight elevator, or took the stairs, and gave them the slip. And, in the meantime…"
His voice trailed off into silence.
"In the meantime, what?" Drake inquired.
"I didn't get very much sleep last night," the lawyer said. He took one long, last puff of the cigarette and ground it out in the ash tray. "Call me at six o'clock," he said, "if I'm not awake by then," and closed his eyes.
The detective stared at him in openmouthed amazement for a moment; then moved toward the couch.
"Hey, you damned hog," he said, "give me one of those pillows. I didn't sleep at all."
Chapter 10
Perry Mason sprawled his signature over the paper which Della Street handed him, pressed a buzzer, and, when one of his assistants entered the office, said, "Here are all the papers for habeas corpus on behalf of one Peter Brunold. Get some fast action."
"You want Brunold out?" the assistant asked.
"They won't let him go," Mason said, "but I want to force their hands and make them put a charge against him. They probably don't want to charge him with murder right now. But that's the only charge they can put against him, so we'll force their hand with a habeas corpus."
Mason turned to Della Street, as the assistant took the papers and went out. "Did you ask Drake to come in here?" he inquired.
"Yes. I told him to come directly to your private office. He should be here… That's he at the door now."
A shadow hulked on the frosted glass panel of the door. Della Street glided across the office, opened it, and Paul Drake grinned at Perry Mason.
"Got a hunch?" he asked, sliding into the big overstuffed leather chair, his knees draped across one of the arms, the small of his back propped against the other.
"Yes," Mason said. "This Fenwick woman."
"What about her?"
"One of three things happened to that woman," Mason said. "Either she was kidnapped by the murderer, or she met with some accident, or she skipped out.
"The murderer didn't know her—that is, he hadn't seen her first. If she'd met with an accident, the police would have spotted her by this time. Therefore, I think she skipped out."
"That, of course," the detective said slowly, "is acting on the assumption she told the truth about what she had seen the night of the murder. She may have skipped out because she knows something that would put Dick Basset on the spot."
Mason nodded his head moodily and said, "There's a diamondshaped panel of plate glass in the door of Hartley Basset's entrance room. She'd been slugged and was groggy. When she got up from the couch, she staggered and slapped both of her hands against the glass in order to catch herself. She must have left ten perfectly good fingerprints on that glass.
"Now, I'm just wondering about that girl and don't want to overlook any bets. She has some powerful motive for skipping out. Either she's protecting someone, or she's concealing something she did the night of the murder, or she has a record and doesn't dare to stand police questioning. She could have gone into the room, found Hartley Basset dead, lifted a bunch of money from his pocket, then socked herself on the head with something and pretended to be out.
"She could have seen Dick Basset commit the murder and skipped out to keep from testifying.
"She could be a crook, with a criminal record. Let's investigate all the possibilities. Skip out to Basset's house, develop those latent fingerprints on the glass of the door, photograph them, and see if you can get an identification."
Drake nodded slowly. "Anything else?" he asked.
"Not right now. Let's get the lowdown on this Fenwick woman."
As Paul Drake turned the knob of the door which led to the corridor, he said, with a droll smile, "There isn't any chance that the cops are right and you have this woman tucked away some pla
ce, is there, Perry?"
Mason grinned and said, "You might look under my desk, Paul."
The detective looked puzzled and said, "You sonofagun, if you're sending me on a runaround, I'll never trust you again."
He closed the door, and Mason turned to Della Street.
"Make a note," he said, "to look up how glass eyes are held in place, and how easily they can be jarred loose."
She finished making swift lines in her shorthand notebook, glanced up at Mason and said, "How about your fingerprints on that gun?"
Mason chuckled, and said, "I think the cops have overlooked a bet there. They fingerprinted everyone in the house, but they overlooked me."
She asked thoughtfully, "Is Hamilton Burger a shrewd district attorney?"
"I don't know yet," Mason said. "It's too early to tell. This is the first murder case that's come up since he's been in office."
"Do you know him personally?"
"I've met him, that's all."
"If he thinks you're responsible for getting this Fenwick witness out of the jurisdiction of the court, won't he take some action against you?"
"He may."
"What can you do if he does?"
"Simply tell the truth, which won't be enough."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If I told any jury on God's green earth that I had taken the key witness in a murder case, spirited her away from the officers, and sent her up to my office so I could find out exactly what she knew and get a written statement before the officers got hold of her, and then tried to explain that she'd disappeared and I didn't know where she had gone, it would indicate two things to the average newspaper reader: First, that I was a liar; second, that her statement had clinched the case against my client, that I was keeping her under cover for that reason."
Della Street nodded sympathetically.
The buzzer rang the code signal which announced that she was wanted on the telephone for an important message. She glanced at Perry Mason. He nodded. She picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." Her eyes narrowed. She placed her palm over the transmitter.
"Hamilton Burger," she said, "the district attorney, is in the office and wants to see you."
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