Fran Celane sat in the big, black leather chair, stared at the camera on the tripod, looked at the face of Perry Mason, and smiled, a wan, pathetic smile.
"Hold that smile," said the photographer.
"Wait a minute," said Nevers, "there's going to be a sex angle to this, and I want a little more leg."
Fran Celane continued to smile wanly. She reached down with her left hand and moved her skirt up an inch or two.
"Face the camera," said the photographer.
Harry Nevers said: "Wait a minute. It still ain't right. I want a little more leg."
The smile left her face, her black eyes blazed furiously. She reached down and pulled the skirt far up over the knee with an angry gesture.
"That's too much, Miss Celane," the photographer said.
"All right," she blazed at Nevers, "damn you, you wanted leg! There it is!"
Mason explained patiently.
"You understand, Miss Celane, that these men are friendly to our side of the case. They're going to see that you get some favorable publicity, but, in order to do that, they've got to have a picture that will attract the interest of the public. Now, it's going to help your case a lot if you can get just the right kind of a smile on your face, and at the same time, show just enough of a sex angle to appeal to the masculine eye."
Slowly the glitter faded from her eyes. She adjusted her skirt down over her knee, and once more the wan, pathetic smile came on her face.
"That's oke," said Nevers.
"Hold it," said the photographer, and, "don't blink your eyes."
A puff of white light mushroomed up from the flashgun and a little cloud of smoke twisted and turned as it writhed toward the ceiling.
"All right," said the photographer, "let's try one with a slightly different pose. Handkerchief in the left hand as though you'd been weeping, face mournful. Let the mouth droop a little bit. Not quite so much leg."
Frances Celane flared: "What do you think I am, an actress or a mannequin?"
"That's all right," soothed Perry Mason. "You'll have a lot of this to go through with, Miss Celane. And I want to caution you to keep your temper. If you flare up and show temper, and the newspaper reporters start playing you up as a tigerwoman, it's going to be a bad thing for your case. What I'm trying to do is to get the case brought on for trial, and get a quick acquittal. You've got to cooperate or you may have some unpleasant surprises."
She stared at Perry Mason, sighed, and took the pose they had suggested.
"Chin a little lower and to the left," said the photographer. "Eyes downcast, but not so far that they give the impression of being closed. Get the point of that shoulder a little bit away from the camera, so I can get the sweep of your throat. All right, that's fine. Hold it!"
Once more the shutter clicked, and once more the flashlight gave forth a puff of white smoke.
"Okay," said the photographer. "That's fine for those two."
Perry Mason crossed to the telephone.
"Get me Claude Drumm at the District Attorney's office," he said.
When he had Drumm on the line, he said: "I'm awfully sorry, Drumm, but Miss Celane is very much indisposed. She's had a nervous breakdown and was ordered to a sanitarium by her physician. She left the sanitarium to come in and surrender herself into custody when she knew that the police were looking for her. She's at my office now, and she's suffering from nervousness. I think you'd better arrange to pick her up here."
"I thought you said she had left your office when you telephoned before," said Drumm, with a trace of annoyance in his voice.
"No," said Mason, "you misunderstood me. I said that she had started for your office. I told you I didn't know what stops she intended to make on the way. She was nervous, and stopped in here because she wanted me to go with her."
Drumm said: "All right, the police will be there," and slammed up the telephone.
Mason turned and grinned at Nevers.
"If I'd let them know she was coming here to surrender herself, they'd have had men parked around to grab her before she got here," he said.
"Oh, well," said Nevers. "It's all in the game. I could stand another drink of that whisky if you've got it handy."
"I could stand a drink myself," said Fran Celane.
Mason shook his head at her.
"No, we're going to be in the middle of action pretty quick, and I don't want you to have liquor on your breath, Miss Celane. You've got to remember that every little thing you do, and everything you say, will be snapped up and dished out to the public.
"Now remember that under no circumstances are you to talk about the case or to lose your temper. Those are two things you've got to remember. Talk about anything else, give the reporters plenty of material. Tell them about the romance of your secret marriage with Rob Gleason. Tell them how you admire him and what a wonderful man he is. Tell them all about the childhood you had, the fact that your parents died and that your uncle was the same as a father and a mother to you. Try to get the note of the poor little rich girl who has neither father nor mother, but is rolling in coin.
"Give them all the material that they want to write sob sister articles and character sketches, and that stuff. But the minute they start talking about the case, or what happened on that night, simply dry up like a clam. Tell them that you're awfully sorry, that you'd like to talk about it, and you don't see any reason why you couldn't, but that your lawyer has given you specific instructions that he's to do all the talking. Tell them you think it's silly, and that you can't understand why your lawyer feels that way, because you've got nothing to conceal, and you'd like to come right out and tell the whole circumstances as you remember them, but you've promised your lawyer, and you're not going to break your promise to anybody.
"They'll try all sorts of tricks on you, and probably tell you Rob Gleason has made a full confession, or that he has told the officers he has reason to believe that you committed the murder, or that you made certain incriminating statements to him, or they'll tell you that he has come to the conclusion that you are guilty and has made a confession in order to take the jolt so that you'll be spared. They'll try all sorts of stuff. Simply look at them with a dumb expression on your face, and say nothing. And for God's sake, don't lose your temper. They'll probably do things that will make you want to kill them, but if you lose your temper and fly into one of your rages, they'll spread it all over the front pages of the newspaper, that you've got an ungovernable temper, and are one of these tiger women."
"I understand," she said.
There was the sound of a siren drifting up through the windows of the office.
Frances Celane shuddered.
"Well," said Nevers to the photographer, "get your camera all loaded up, boy, because some of these cops will want to get their picture in the paper, taking the suspect into custody. Probably Carl Seaward will show up from the Homicide Squad. He's one of those birds that likes to stick his stomach in front of a camera and put his hand on the shoulder of the prisoner, with a photograph for the front page labeled: 'Carl Seaward, intrepid investigator of the Homicide Squad, taking the suspect into custody, marking the termination of a case which has baffled the entire police force for the past fortyeight hours.
"Maybe I'd better get in this picture too. I wonder if my hair is on straight. I can pose as the STAR reporter who assisted the police in locating the suspect."
And Nevers struck a pose in front of the camera, grinning.
Frances Celane surveyed him in scornful appraisal.
"Show a little leg," she said.