The room in the jail, set aside for conferences between attorneys and clients, contained no furniture other than a long table running the length of the room, flanked with chairs on either side. Midway along the table, stretching entirely through the table to the floor, and up to a height of five feet above the table, was a heavy wire screen.
An attorney and his client could sit on opposite sides of the table. They could see each other's faces, hear plainly what was said; but they could not touch each other; nor could they pass any object through the screen. The visiting room had three doors. One of them opened from the jailor's office to the side of the room where attorneys were admitted; one opened from the jailor's office to the side where prisoners were admitted, and one led from the prisoners' side of the room to the jail.
Perry Mason sat in a chair at the long table, and waited impatiently. His fingers made little drumming sounds upon the battered table top.
After a few moments the door from the jail opened and a matron walked into the room, with Mrs. Forbes on her arm.
Bessie Forbes was whitefaced, but calm. Her eyes held a haunting expression of terror, but her lips were clamped together in a firm, determined line. She looked about the room, and then saw Perry Mason, as the attorney got to his feet.
"Good morning," he called.
"Good morning," she said, in a firm, steady voice, and walked over to the table.
"Take that seat across from me," said Perry Mason.
She sat down and tried a smile. The matron withdrew through the door which went to the jail. The guard peered curiously through the steel cage, then turned away. He was entirely out of earshot. Attorney and client were alone.
"Why," said Perry Mason, "did you lie to me about the gun?"
She looked about her with a haunted, hunted look, then moistened her lips with the extreme tip of her tongue.
"I didn't lie," she said. "I had just forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" he asked.
"Forgotten about purchasing that gun."
"Well, then," he said, "go ahead and tell me about it."
She spoke slowly, as though choosing her words carefully.
"Two days before my husband left Santa Barbara," she said, "I found out about his affair with Paula Cartright. I got a permit from the authorities to keep a gun in the house, went down to a sporting goods store, and bought the automatic."
"What did you intend to do with it?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said.
"Going to use it on your husband?"
"I don't know."
"Going to use it on Paula Cartright?"
"I don't know, I tell you. I just acted on an impulse. I think, perhaps, I was just going to run a bluff."
"All right," he said, "what happened to the gun?"
"My husband took it away from me."
"You showed it to him, then?"
"Yes."
"How did you happen to show it to him?"
"He made me angry."
"Oh, then you threatened him with it?"
"You might call it that. I took the gun from my purse and told him I'd kill myself before I'd be placed in the position of a neglected wife who hadn't been able to hold her husband."
"Did you mean it?" Perry Mason asked, studying her from expressionless, patient eyes.
"Yes," she said, "I meant it."
"But you didn't kill yourself."
"No."
"Why?"
"I didn't have the gun when it happened."
"Why didn't you?"
"My husband had taken it from me. I told you."
"Yes," said Mason, "you told me that, but I thought perhaps he'd given it back."
"No. He took it, and I never saw it again."
"So you didn't commit suicide because you didn't have the gun?"
"That's right."
Mason made drumming motions with his fingertips on the table top.
"There are other ways of committing suicide," he said.
"Not easy ways," she told him.
"There's lots of ocean around Santa Barbara."
"I don't like drowning."
"You like being shot?" he asked.
"Please don't be sarcastic. Can't you believe me?"
"Yes," he said slowly. "I'm looking at it from the standpoint of a juror."
"A juror wouldn't ask me those questions," she flared.
"No," Mason told her moodily, "but a district attorney would, and the jurors would be listening."
"Well," she said, "I can't help it. I've told you the truth."
"So your husband took that gun with him when he left?"
"I guess so. I never saw it again."
"Then your idea is that some one took that gun from your husband, killed the police dog and killed him?"
"No."
"What is your idea?"
"Some one," she said slowly, "who had access to my husband's things took that gun and waited for the right opportunity to kill him."
"Who do you think that was?"
"It might," she said, "have been Paula Cartright, or it might have been Arthur Cartright."
"How about Thelma Benton?" said Perry Mason slowly. "She looks like rather an emotional type to me."
"Why should Thelma Benton kill him?" asked the woman.
"I don't know," said Perry Mason. "Why should Paula Cartright have killed him, after she lived with him so long?"
"She might have had reasons," said Bessie Forbes.
"According to that theory, she would have first run away with her husband, then returned and killed Forbes."
"Yes."
"I think," said Perry Mason slowly, "it would be better to stick to the theory that Arthur Cartright killed him, or that Thelma Benton killed him. The more I see of it, the more I'm inclined to concentrate on Thelma Benton."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because," he told her, "she's going to be a witness against you, and it's always a good move to show that a witness for the prosecution might be trying to pass the crime onto somebody else."
"You don't act as though you believed what I tell you," she said, "about the gun."
"I never believe anything that I can't make a jury believe," Perry Mason told her. "And I'm not certain that I can make a jury believe that story about the gun, if they also believe that you went there in a taxicab; that you saw your husband's dead body lying on the floor, and made no move to report to the police, but that you fled from the scene of the murder and tried to conceal your identity by taking a room under the name of Mrs. C. M. Dangerfield."
"I didn't want my husband to know I was in town."
"Why not?" he asked her.
"He was utterly cruel and utterly ruthless," she answered.
Perry Mason got to his feet and motioned to the attendant that the interview was over.
"Well," he said, "I'll think it over. In the meantime, write me a letter and tell me that you've been giving your case a great deal of thought, and that you want to tell your story to the newspaper reporters."
"But I've already told them that," she said.
"Never mind that," Perry Mason told her, as the matron appeared through the door leading from the jail. "I want you to put it in writing and send it to me."
"They'll censor it before it goes out of the jail?" she asked.
"Of course," he told her. "Goodby."
She stood staring at him until he had left the visitors' cage, her expression that of puzzled bewilderment.
The matron tapped her arm.
"Come," she said.
"Oh," sighed Bessie Forbes, "he doesn't believe me."
"What's that?" asked the matron.
"Nothing," said Mrs. Forbes, clamping her lip in a firm, straight line.
Perry Mason stepped into the telephone booth, dropped a coin and dialed the number of Paul Drake's detective bureau.
After a moment he heard Drake's voice on the line.
"Paul," he said, "Perry Mason talking. I'm going to shift my guns in that murder case a little."
"You don't need to shift them any; you've got them covering every point in the case now," Drake told him.
"You haven't seen anything yet," Mason remarked. "And I want you to concentrate on Thelma Benton. She's got an alibi that covers every minute of her time, from the time she left the house, until she got back. I want to find a hole in that alibi some place, if I can."
"I don't think there's any hole in it," Drake said. "I've checked it pretty thoroughly, and it seems to hold water. Now I've got some bad news for you."
"What is it?"
"The district attorney has found out about Ed Wheeler and George Doake, the two detectives who were watching Clinton Foley's house. They've got deputies out looking for them."
"They got wise to those birds through the taxi driver," Perry Mason said slowly.
"I guess so," said Drake.
"The deputies found them?"
"No."
"Are they likely to?"
"Not unless you want them to."
"I don't want them to," said Perry Mason. "Meet me at my office in ten minutes, and have all the reports on this Thelma Benton."
He heard Drake sigh over the telephone.
"You're getting this case all mixed up, brother," Drake told him.
Perry Mason laughed grimly.
"That's the way I want it," he said, and hung up the receiver.
Perry Mason caught a taxicab to his office, and found Paul Drake waiting for him with a sheaf of papers.
Mason nodded to Della Street, took Paul Drake's arm and piloted him into the inner office.
"All right, Paul," he said. "What have you found out?"
"There's only one weak point in the alibi," the detective said.
"What's that?"
"That's this fellow Carl Trask, the gambler who showed up in the Chevrolet and took Thelma Benton from the house. She was with him at various places until eight o'clock. I've checked the times when they showed at the various places. There's a gap between seventhirty and sevenfifty. Then they drifted into a speak and had a drink. Trask left shortly after eight o'clock, and the girl went to a booth and had dinner by herself. The waiter remembers her perfectly. She left about eightythirty, picked up a girl friend and went to a picture show. Her alibi is going to depend on Carl Trask's testimony from around seventhirty to sevenfifty, and on the girl friend from eightthirty on.
"But we don't care about busting the alibi after eightthirty. Between seventhirty and sevenfifty is the time you want to concentrate on, and from all I can find out, that's going to rest on Carl Trask's testimony, and, of course, that of Thelma Benton herself."
"Where does she claim she was?" Mason asked.
"She says she was down at another speak, having a cocktail, but nobody remembers her down there. That is, nobody has yet."
"If," said Perry Mason moodily, "she could find somebody down there who remembered her, it would give her a pretty good alibi."
Paul Drake nodded wordlessly.
"And," said Perry Mason slowly, "if she can't, it's going to be a weak spot, if we can impeach Carl Trask in some way. You say he's a gambler?"
"Yes."
"Any criminal record?"
"We're looking it up. We know he's been in minor troubles."
"All right, look him up from the time he was a kid down to date. Get something on him if you can. If you can't, get something that won't sound good to a jury."
"I'm already working on that," Drake said.
"And the deputies are looking for Wheeler and Doake?"
"Yes."
"By the way," said Perry Mason casually, "where are those two birds?"
Paul Drake looked at Perry Mason, and his face held the innocence of a child.
"I had a very important matter to investigate in Florida," he said, "and I put those two fellows on a plane and sent them there on the job."
"Anybody know they went?" asked Perry Mason.
"No. It's a confidential matter, and they didn't get tickets in their own names."
Perry Mason nodded appreciatively.
"Good work, Paul," he said.
He made little drumming gestures with his fingertips on the desk, abruptly said, "Where can I reach Thelma Benton?"
"She's staying at the Riverview Apartments."
"Under her own name?"
"Yes."
"You keeping her shadowed?"
"Yes."
"What's she doing?"
"Talking with cops, mostly. She's made three trips to headquarters and two to the district attorney's offices."
"For questioning?"
"I don't know whether they're in response to telephone communications or not. But there was only once she was sent for. The rest of the time she went by herself."
"How's her hand?" asked Mason.
"I don't know that. It's pretty well bandaged. I chased down the doctor who treated it. His name's Phil Morton and his offices are in the Medical Building. He was called out to the house on Milpas Drive, and said the hand was pretty badly mangled."
"Mangled?" asked Perry Mason.
"Yes, that's what he said."
"She still has it bandaged?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes."
Abruptly, Perry Mason took down the telephone.
"Della," he said, "ring up the Riverview Apartments. Get Thelma Benton on the line. Tell her that this is The Chronicle speaking, and the city editor wants to talk with her. After that has soaked in, put her on my line."
He hung up the telephone.
Drake looked at him without expression on his face and said slowly, "You're skating on pretty thin ice, Perry."
Perry Mason nodded gloomily.
"I've got to," he said.
"How about that line?" asked Drake. "Are you still on the right side of it?"
The lawyer gave his shoulders a nervous shake, as though trying to rid himself of a disagreeable sensation.
"I hope so," he said.
The telephone rang.
Perry Mason picked up the receiver, raised his voice, and snapped: "City Editor."
The receiver made metallic noises, and then Perry Mason still speaking in the same highpitched rapid tone of voice said, "Miss Benton, it looks as though this Forbes murder case is going to have a lot of dramatic interest. You've been with the parties from the start. Did you keep a diary?"
Once more the receiver made metallic noises, and a slow smile spread over the face of Perry Mason.
"Would you be interested in ten thousand dollars for the exclusive right to publish that diary… you would?… Have you kept your diary up to date?… will you keep it right up to date?… Don't say anything about this offer. I'll have one of our reporters get in touch with you when we want it. I can't tell about the price until I take it up with the managing editor. Then he'll want to inspect the diary, but I'm willing to make a recommendation for its purchase at that figure, provided we have the exclusive on it. That's all. G'by."
Mason slammed the receiver up on the line.
"Think she'll try to trace that call?" asked the detective.
"She can't," Mason said. "What's more, she hasn't got sense enough. She fell for it, hook, line and sinker."
"She keeps a diary?" asked the detective.
"I don't know," Perry Mason said.
"Didn't she say she did?"
Perry Mason laughed.
"Sure," he said, "she said she did but that doesn't mean anything. The way I made the offer, she is going to have time to fake one. A girl can do a lot of writing for ten thousand dollars."
"What's the idea?" asked Drake.
"Just a hunch," Mason said. "Now let's check over those samples of handwriting. Have you got samples of handwriting?"
"I haven't got a sample of Mrs. Forbes' handwriting, but I have got a sample of Paula Cartright's handwriting. I've got some stuff that Thelma Benton has written, and a letter that Elizabeth Walker, Cartright's housekeeper, wrote."
"Have you checked them," Perry Mason said slowly, "with the note that was left by Paula Cartright when she left Forbes?"
"No, the district attorney's office has got that note, but I have a photostatic copy of the telegram that was sent from Midwick, and the handwriting doesn't check."
"What handwriting doesn't check?"
"None of them."
"That telegram's in a woman's handwriting?"
Drake nodded, fished through the folder, and took out a photostatic copy of a telegram.
Mason took the paper and studied it carefully.
"Does the telegraph operator remember anything about it?" he asked.
"He just remembers that a woman handed it in, across the counter, together with the exact amount necessary to send it. She seemed in very much of a hurry. The telegraph operator remembers that he was counting the words when she started out. He told her he'd have to check the amount, and she called over her shoulder that she was quite sure it was right, and went out."
"Would he remember her again if he saw her?"
"I doubt it. He's not too intelligent, and apparently didn't pay any particular attention to her. She came in wearing a widebrimmed hat. The operator remembers that much. She had her head tilted down so that the brim kept him from seeing her face when she was handing the telegram across the counter. After that, he started to count the words, and she walked out."
Mason continued to stare at the photostatic copy of the telegram, then glanced up at Drake.
"Drake," he said, "how did the newspapers get onto the inside of all this business?"
"What inside?"
"All about the man who lived under the name of Foley being, in reality, Clinton Forbes, and having run away with Paula Cartright, and the Santa Barbara scandal end of the thing?"
"Shucks," said Drake, "that was a cinch. We found it out, and it's a cinch the newspapers were as well organized as we were. They have correspondents in Santa Barbara, and they dug up the files of old newspapers and made a great human interest story out of it. Then, you know the district attorney — he likes to try his cases in the newspapers. He's been feeding them everything he could find out."
Perry Mason nodded his head thoughtfully.
"Drake," he said, "I think I'm getting about ready to go to trial."
The detective looked at him with some show of surprise.
"The case won't be tried for some time yet, even if you try to get an immediate hearing," he said.
Perry Mason smiled patiently.
"That," he said, "is the way to prepare a criminal case. You've got to make all of your preparations and block out your defense before the district attorney really finds out what it's all about. After that, it's too late."