Perry Mason looked at his watch when he entered his office. It was a cold, blustery night outside, and the radiators were hissing comfortably. The hour was exactly eight fortyfive.
Perry Mason switched on the lights and set a leather case on Della Street 's desk. He snapped a catch, took off a cover, and disclosed a portable typewriter. He reached in his overcoat pocket, took out a pair of gloves and put them on. From a briefcase he took several sheets of paper and a stamped envelope. He had just placed them on the desk when Della Street came in.
"Did you see the papers?" she asked, as she closed the door and slipped out of her fur coat.
"Yes," said Perry Mason, and grinned.
"Tell me," she said, "did you arrange that whole business so you'd have a dramatic punch for the close of the trial?"
"Sure," he told her. "Why not?"
"Weren't you coming pretty close to a violation of the law? Can't they make trouble for you before the grievance committee?"
"I doubt it," he said. "It was legitimate crossexamination."
"How do you mean — crossexamination?" she asked.
"It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have stood several women in line and asked Sam Marson to pick out the one who had left the handkerchief in his taxicab. It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have pointed to one of the women and told him that I thought that was the one. It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have taken one woman to him and asked him if he wasn't certain that that was the one, or to have told him that it was the one."
"Well?" she asked.
"Well," he said, "I only went one step farther. I found out that he was uncertain about the identity of the woman. I capitalized on that uncertainty, that's all. I took a woman, dressed her approximately the same as Mrs. Forbes had been dressed, put the same kind of perfume on her, and had her tell the taxi driver that she had left the handkerchief in his cab. Naturally, he didn't question her word, because he was uncertain in his recollection of the woman who had left the handkerchief in his cab.
"I knew that by the time the authorities got done with him, he'd make a positive identification. That's a slick way they have of taking a witness over a period of time, and letting him become more and more positive. They showed him Bessie Forbes, on at least a dozen different occasions. They did it casually, so that he didn't know he was being hypnotized. First, they showed him the woman, and told him that was the one who had been in his cab. Then they brought him in and confronted her with him, and told her that he had identified her. She didn't say anything, but refused to answer questions. That made Marson a little more certain. Bit by bit, they built him up in his testimony, and coached him, until he was so positive in his own mind, there couldn't be any doubt whatever. It's the way the prosecution prepares all cases. They naturally make witnesses more strong in their identifications."
"I know," she said, "but how about the handkerchief?"
"In order to be larceny," he said, "there has got to be an intent to steal. There wasn't any intent to steal. The woman was getting the handkerchief for me. I was getting it for the authorities. I turned it over to them sooner than they would have found it otherwise, and gave them the information."
She frowned and shook her head.
"Perhaps," she said, "but you certainly pulled a fast one."
"Of course I pulled a fast one," he told her. "It's what I'm paid for. I simply crossexamined him in an unorthodox manner, and crossexamined him before the district attorney had an opportunity to poison his mind with a lot of propaganda, that's all… don't take off your gloves, Della, leave them on."
"Why?" she asked, regarding the long black gloves on her hands and arms.
"Because," he said, "we're going to pull another fast one, and I don't want either one of us to leave fingerprints on the paper."
She stared at him for a minute, and then said: "Is it within the law?"
"I think it is," he told her, "but we're not going to get caught."
He walked over to the door and locked it.
"Take a sheet of this paper," he said, "and put it in that portable typewriter."
"I don't like portables," she told him. "I'm used to my office machine."
"That's all right," he told her. "Typewriters are as individual as handwriting. A handwriting expert can tell the kind of a typewriter a document was written on, and can also identify the typewriter, itself, if he has access to it and a chance to compare the writing."
"This is a new portable," she said.
"Exactly," he told her, "and I'm going to put some of the type a little out of line, so it won't look quite so new."
He went to the machine and started bending the type bars.
"What's the idea?" she asked.
"We're going to write a confession."
"What sort of a confession?"
"A confession," he said, "to the murder of Paula Cartright."
She stared at him with wide, startled eyes.
"Good heavens!" she said, "and then what are you going to do with the confession?"
"We're going to mail it," he said, "to the city editor of The Chronicle."
She remained motionless, staring at him with apprehensive eyes, then suddenly took a deep breath, walked over to her chair, sat down and slid some of the sheets of paper into the portable typewriter.
"Afraid, Della?" he asked.
"No," she said. "If you tell me to do it, I'm going to do it."
"I think it's skating on pretty thin ice," he told her, "but I think I can get you out if anything happens."
"That's all okay," she said. "I'd do anything for you. Go ahead and tell me what you want written."
"I'm going to dictate this," he said slowly, "and you can take it directly on the typewriter."
He moved to her shoulder and said in a low voice, "Write this, addressed to the city editor of The Chronicle.
Dear Sir:
I notice that in your paper you printed an interview with Elizabeth Walker, in which she said that I had made statements on several occasions that I intended to die on the scaffold; that I spent most of my time staring through binoculars at the residence occupied by Clinton Forbes, who was then going under the name of Clinton Foley.
All of these things are correct.
I notice that you have published an editorial demanding that the authorities apprehend me, and also apprehend Paula Cartright, my wife, before the trial of Bessie Forbes is allowed to proceed, the intimation being that I killed Clinton Forbes.
This accusation is unjust and untrue.
I did not killClintonForbes; but I did kill my wife, Paula Cartright.
Under the circumstances, I think that the public is entitled to know exactly what happened.
Perry Mason paused until the clicking of the typewriter signified that Della Street had caught up with him. Then he waited until she raised her eyes to his.
"Getting frightened, Della?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Go on."
"It's loaded with dynamite," he told her.
"It's oke with me," she said. "If you can take a chance, so can I.
"All right," he said, "go on from there:
"I lived in Santa Barbara with my wife, and I was happy. I was friendly with Clinton Forbes, and his wife. I knew that Clinton Forbes was a rotter, so far as any moral sense was concerned, but I liked him. I knew that he was playing around with half a dozen women. I never had any suspicion that my wife was one of them. Abruptly, and out of a clear sky, I realized the truth. I was a ruined man. My happiness was wrecked and so was my home. I determined to hunt down Clinton Forbes and kill him, as I would a dog.
"It took me ten months to find him. Then I found him living on Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley. I found that the adjoining house was for rent, furnished, and I moved in, purposely engaged a housekeeper who was stone deaf, and who could not, therefore, engage in neighborhood gossip. Before I killed Clinton Foley, I wanted to find out something about his habits. I wanted to find out something about how he was treating Paula, and whether she was happy. To that end, I spent most of my time studying the house through binoculars.
"It was a slow and tedious undertaking. On occasions, I would see intimate glimpses of the home life of the man on whom I spied. At other times, days would go past, during which I would see nothing. In the end, I satisfied myself that Paula was desperately unhappy.
"And yet, despite all of my plans, I failed in my purpose. I waited until there was a dark night that suited my intentions, and sneaked across the grounds to the house of my enemy. I fully intended to kill him and claim my wife. I gave my housekeeper a letter to my lawyer. In that letter I enclosed my will. In case anything happened to me, I wanted to know that my affairs had been put in order.
"I found the back door of the house unlocked. Clinton Foley had a police dog, Prince, who acted as watch dog, but Prince knew me, because I had been friendly with Clinton Forbes in Santa Barbara. In place of barking at me, the dog was glad to see me. He jumped on me and licked my hand. I patted his head and walked quietly through the back of the house. I was going through the library, when I suddenly encountered my wife. She stared at me and screamed. I grabbed her and threatened to choke her if she didn't keep quiet.
"She almost fainted with terror. I made her sit down, and talked with her. She told me that Clinton Forbes and his housekeeper, Thelma Benton, had been carrying on a clandestine affair for years; that the affair had dated back even before his affair with her; that Forbes had gone out with Thelma Benton, and that she was alone in the house; that Ah Wong, the cook, had gone out to spend the evening with some Chinese friends, as was his custom.
"I told her that I intended to kill Forbes, and that I wanted her to go away with me. She told me that I must do nothing of the sort, and that she had ceased to love me and could never be happy with me. She threatened to call the police and tell them about what I intended to do. She started for the telephone. I struggled with her and she started to scream. I choked her.
"I can never explain the emotions of that moment. I loved her passionately. I knew that she no longer loved me. She was struggling with me, to save the man who had betrayed me and whom I hated. I became insensible to my surroundings. I only knew that I was crushing her neck in a frantic grip. When I regained my senses sufficiently to realize what I was doing, she was dead. I had choked her to death.
"Clinton Forbes was building an addition to his garage. The cement work was in. The floor was about to be laid. I went into the garage and found a pick and shovel. I dug up the ground where the floor was to be poured, buried the body of my wife in a shallow grave, took the extra dirt in a wheelbarrow, carried it to the rear of the lot and dumped it. I wanted to wait for Clinton Forbes, but I dared not do so. The thing which I had done had completely unnerved me. I was trembling like a leaf. I realized that my temper had betrayed me into killing the woman I loved. I realized, however, that I was safe from discovery. The contractors were about to pour the cement floor in the addition to the garage, and that would cover up the evidences of my crime. I went to another section of town, rented a room under an assumed name, built up a second identity for myself, and have been living there ever since.
"I am making this confession because I feel that it is only fair that I do so. I killed my wife. I did not kill Clinton Forbes — I only wish that I had. He deserved to die, but I did not kill him.
"I am safe from detection. No one will ever penetrate the secret of my present disguise.
"Very truly yours,"
Perry Mason waited until the girl had finished her typing, then he took the paper from the portable machine, and read it over carefully.
"That," he said, "will be all right."
She looked at him with white, drawn features and staring eyes.
"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.
"I am going to take the will of Arthur Cartright as a pattern," he said, "and forge his signature to this document."
She stared at him for a moment silently, then walked across the office to a table on which was pen and ink, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and handed it to him. Wordlessly, she walked over to the safe, spun the dials, opened the doors of the safe, took out the will of Arthur Cartright and handed it to him.
In purposeful silence, Perry Mason sat down at the table, made several practice signatures on a piece of paper, then laboriously forged the signature of Arthur Cartright to the confession. He folded the paper, then handed Della Street the stamped envelope.
"Address that," he said, "to the city editor of The Chronicle."
He put the cover back on the portable typewriter.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
"Mail the letter," he said, "and see that this portable typewriter is placed where the authorities will never find it, take a taxicab and go home."
She looked at him steadily for a moment, then walked to the door.
She paused, with her hand on the knob, stood motionless for a moment, then turned and came back to him.
"Chief," she said, "I wish you wouldn't do it."
"Do what?"
"Take these chances."
"I have to do it," he said.
"It isn't right," she said.
"It is if the results are right."
"What results are you trying to get?"
"I want," he said, "the cement floor in that garage extension broken up, and the place underneath carefully searched."
"Then why not go to the authorities and ask them to do it?"
He laughed sarcastically.
"A fat chance that they'd do anything," he said. "They hate my guts. They are trying to get Bessie Forbes convicted. They wouldn't do anything that would weaken their case in front of a jury. Their theory is that she's guilty, and that's all there is to it. They won't listen to anything else, and if I ask them to do anything, they'd naturally think that I was trying to slip over a fast one."
"What will happen when you send this to The Chronicle?" she asked.
"It's a cinch," he said. "They'll smash up that floor."
"How will they do it?"
"They'll just do it, that's all."
"Will they get permission from anybody?"
"Don't be silly," he told her. "Forbes bought the place and owns it. He's dead. Bessie Forbes is his wife. If she's acquitted of this murder, she'll inherit his property."
"If she isn't?" asked Della Street.
"She's going to be," he told her grimly.
"What makes you think there's a body under there?" she asked.
"Listen," he told her, "let's look at this thing from a reasonable standpoint and quit being stampeded by a lot of facts that don't mean anything. You remember when Arthur Cartright first came to us?"
"Yes, of course."
"You remember what he said? He wanted a will made. He wanted a will made so that the property would be taken by the woman who was at present living as the wife of Clinton Foley, in the house on Milpas Drive."
"Yes."
"All right. Then he made a will and sent it to me, and the will didn't read that way."
"Why didn't it?" she asked.
"Because," he said, "he knew that there was no use leaving his property to a woman who was already dead. In some way he'd found out that she was dead."
"Then he didn't murder her?"
"I'm not saying that, but I don't think he did."
"But isn't it a crime to forge a confession of this sort?"
"Under certain circumstances, it may be," Perry Mason said.
"I can't see under what circumstances it wouldn't be," she told him.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
"And you think that Arthur Cartright knew that his wife was dead?"
"Yes, he'd been devoted to her. He'd been searching for her for ten months. He'd been living next door to her for two months, spying on the man he hated, and trying to find out if his wife was happy. He made up his mind he was going to kill Clinton Forbes. He felt that he would be executed for that murder. He wanted his property to go to his wife; not to Forbes' wife, but to Paula Cartright, but he didn't care to make his will in favor of Paula Cartright before he had committed the murder, because he thought that would bring an investigation. So he made his will, or wanted to make his will, so that it would transfer the property to the woman, under the name of Evelyn Foley.
"You can see what he had in mind. He wanted to hush up any scandal. He intended to kill Foley and to plead guilty to murder and be executed. He wanted his will made so that his property would go to the woman who was apparently the widow of the man he had murdered, and he wanted to do it in such a way that no questions would be asked, and her real identity would never be known. He did that to spare her the disgrace of having the various facts become public."
She stood perfectly still, her eyes staring down at the tips of her shoes.
"Yes," she said, "I think I understand."
"And then," said Perry Mason, "something happened, so that Arthur Cartright changed his mind. He knew that there was no use leaving the property to his wife, Paula. He wanted to leave it to some one because he didn't expect to remain alive. He had undoubtedly been in touch with Bessie Forbes, and knew that she was in the city, so he left the property to her."
"What makes you say he had been in touch with Bessie Forbes?" asked Della Street.
"Because the taxi driver says that Bessie Forbes told him to telephone Parkcrest 62945, which was Cartright's number, and tell Arthur to go next door to Clint's place. That shows that she knew where Cartright was, and that Cartright knew that she knew."
"I see," said Della Street, and was silent for several seconds.
"Are you certain," asked Della Street, "that Mrs. Cartright didn't run away with Arthur Cartright and leave Clinton Forbes, just as she had left Cartright in Santa Barbara?"
"Yes," he said, "I'm virtually certain."
"What makes you so certain?"
"The note," he said, "that was left wasn't in the handwriting of Paula Cartright."
"You're certain about that?"
"Virtually," he said. "It's approximately the same handwriting as that which appeared on the telegraph blank that was sent from Midwick. I've had samples of Mrs. Cartright's handwriting sent from Santa Barbara, and the two don't check."
"Does the district attorney's office know that?" she asked.
"I don't think so," he told her.
Della Street stared at Perry Mason thoughtfully.
"Was it Thelma Benton's handwriting?" she asked.
"I've had several specimens of Thelma Benton's handwriting, and those specimens seem entirely different from the handwriting of the note and the telegraph blank."
"Mrs. Forbes?" she asked.
"No, it isn't her handwriting. I had Mrs. Forbes write me a letter from the jail."
"There's an editorial in The Chronicle," she said, "did you see it?"
"No," he said. "What is it?"
"It states that in view of the dramatic surprise that impeaches the testimony of the taxicab driver, it is your solemn duty to put your client on the stand and let her explain her connection with the case. The editor says that this air of mystery is all right for a hardened criminal who is being tried for a crime of which every one knows he is guilty, and who desires to assert his constitutional rights, but not for a woman like Mrs. Forbes.
"I didn't see the editorial," said Perry Mason.
"Will it make any difference in your plans?"
"Certainly not," he told her. "I'm trying this case. I'm exercising my judgment for the best interests of my client; not the judgment of some newspaper editor."
"All of the evening papers," she said, "comment upon the consummate skill with which you manipulated things so that the denouement came as a dramatic finale to the day's trial, and managed to impeach the testimony of the taxi driver before the prosecution had even built up its case."
"It wasn't any particular skill on my part," Perry Mason said. "Claude Drumm walked into it. He started to strongarm my witness. I wouldn't stand for it. I grabbed her and took her into the judge's chambers to make a protest. I knew that Drumm was going to claim I'd been guilty of unprofessional conduct, and I wanted to have it out with him right then and there."
"What did Judge Markham think?" she asked.
"I don't know," he told her, "and I don't give a damn. I know what my rights are and I stood on them. I'm fighting to protect a client."
Abruptly she came to him, put her hand on his shoulders.
"Chief," she said, "I doubted you once. I just want you to know that I'll never do it again. I'm for you, right or wrong."
He smiled, patted her on the shoulder.
"All right," he said, "take a taxi and go home. If anybody should want me, you don't know where to find me."
She nodded, walked to the door, and this time went out without hesitating.
Perry Mason waited until she had gone down in the elevator. Then he switched out the lights, put on his overcoat, sealed the letter, took the portable typewriter and went to his car. He drove to another part of the city, posted the letter in a mail box, and then took a winding road which led to a reservoir in the hills back of the city. He drove along the bank of the reservoir, slowed his car, took the portable typewriter and flung it into the reservoir. By the time the water splashed up in a miniature geyser, Perry Mason was stepping on the throttle of his automobile.