Rain seeped silently down prom the midnight sky, dripped in mournful cadences from the glistening leaves of the trees, gave forth hissing noises as the drops struck against the hot hoods of the gasoline lanterns which illuminated the scene.
A grassy slope studded with marble headstones stretched from a circle of vivid illumination into a mysterious border of dripping darkness.
There was no wind.
Hamilton Burger, a big overcoat covering his broad shoulders, the wide collar turned up about his ears, was plainly impatient. "Can't you fellows speed it up a little bit?" he asked.
One of the shovelers cast him a resentful glance. "There ain't room enough for any more men," he said, "and we're working at top speed. We're almost there, anyhow."
He wiped a perspiring forehead with a soggy coat sleeve, and fell once more to rapid shoveling. A moment later the blades of one of the shovels gave forth a peculiar sound as it struck something solid.
"Take it easy," the other shoveler cautioned. "Don't let him rush you. We've got to get the dirt from around the edges before we can raise it up. Get ropes on the handles, and then these fellows that are just standing around can get some exercise."
Burger ignored the sarcastic comment, to lean forward and look down into the oblong hole.
Perry Mason lit a cigarette and stamped his soggy shoes. Paul Drake, sidling up to him, said, "Won't your face be red if the medico says the guy really burned to death?"
Mason shook his head impatiently.
"All I did was to report facts. Personally, I think they're going at this thing backwards. If they'd get Edith DeVoe and then drag Sam Laxter in for questioning they'd stand more chance of getting somewhere."
"Yeah," Drake said, "but then Burger would be out in the open investigating Peter Laxter's death. He's afraid that's just what you want him to do, so he'll sort of sneak up on the case from the back way and convince himself he's got a case before he makes any overt moves. He's played with you before, you know. He's a burnt child who dreads the fire."
"Well," Mason said disgustedly, "he's too damn cautious. This case is going to slip through his fingers if he isn't careful. He may dread the fire, but he can't cook dough into cake without using fire, and even then he can't eat his cake and have it too."
Tom Glassman, chief investigator for the district attorney, blew his nose violently. "What's good to keep from taking cold at a time like this, Doc?" he asked.
Dr. Jason said, unsympathetically, "Staying in a warm bed… They would have to pick a rainy night to do this. The man's been buried for days, but no one takes any interest in him until it starts to rain."
"How long will it take you to tell what you want after examining the body?"
"It may not take very long. It will depend somewhat on the extent to which the body was charred by heat."
"Bring out that coil of rope," one of the men in the grave ordered, "and get ready to pull. We can get the rope around the handles now."
A few moments later, with everyone straining on ropes, the coffin jerked, and started its uneven journey upward.
"Pull steady on them ropes, now; don't get it tilted up at one end, and take it easy."
The coffin reached the surface. Boards were shoved under it. Then the coffin slid along the wet, muddy boards until it rested on the firm ground.
One of the men produced a cloth and wiped the soil from the top of the coffin. A screwdriver made its appearance. After a moment, the lid of the coffin was swung back and a voice said, "Okay, Doc, it's all yours."
Dr. Jason stepped forward, leaned over the coffin, gave an exclamation, and tugged a flashlight from his pocket.
The men shuffled around in a circle, but, as yet, no one had picked up the gasoline lantern, so that the interior of the coffin was plunged in shadow.
"What's the verdict, Doctor?" the district attorney inquired.
Dr. Jason's pocket flashlight illuminated the interior of the coffin. His fingers moved the charred body.
"It's going to be hard to tell. The man's been burned to a crisp. I'll have to look for some place where clothing protected the skin somewhat."
"How about monoxide?"
"No need testing for that. It would be present anyway."
"Well, can you go ahead with your examination?"
"You mean here?"
"Yes."
"It would be difficult, and the conclusion wouldn't be final."
"Can you make a good guess?"
Dr. Jason sighed resignedly, started working with the screwdriver. "I'll answer that question in a few minutes," he said.
One of the men held a lantern. Dr. Jason, showing his resentment against the weather, his disapproval of the entire procedure, removed the top from the coffin. "Bring that light over here—no, not so close—don't let the shadow fall on the inside. That's right—stand about there… Oh, don't be so damned squeamish!"
He fumbled about in the interior of the coffin, took a sharp knife from his pocket. The sound of the blade ripping through cloth sounded startlingly distinct above the steady drip of the misty rain. After a moment he straightened, and nodded to Hamilton Burger. "You wanted a guess?" he asked.
"That's right, a guess—the best you can make, of course."
Dr. Jason dropped the lid back into position. "Go ahead with your investigation," he said.
Hamilton Burger stood staring moodily down at the coffin, then he nodded and turned on his heel. "Okay," he said, "let's go. You ride with us, Mason. Paul Drake can follow in your car. You take charge of the body, Doctor."
Mason followed Burger to the district attorney's car. Tom Glassman drove. The men were grimly silent. The windshield wipers swung back and forth in monotonous tempo, their steady throbbing sounding above the purr of the motor and the whine of the tires.
"Going out to Laxter's place?" Mason asked at length.
"Yes," Burger answered, "up to the place where they're living now—the city house I believe they call it. I want to ask some questions."
"Going to make any accusations?" Mason inquired.
"I'm going to ask some pretty direct questions," Burger admitted. "I don't think I'll make any definite accusations. I don't want to divulge just what we're trying to get at until I'm ready to do so. I'm not going to ask anything about the tube which ran from the exhaust until after I've laid a pretty good foundation. I think it would be better, Mason, if you and your detective weren't present when we asked the questions."
"Well," Mason said, "if you feel that we've done all we can, I know where there's a nice soft bed, a piping hot toddy, and…"
"Not yet," Burger interrupted. "You've started this thing, and you're going to stick around until we see whether we've drawn a blank."
Mason sighed and settled back against the cushions. The car made time through the deserted streets, climbed a winding road which ran up a hill. "That's the place up there," Burger announced—"the big place. Try not to use a flashlight unless you have to, Tom. I'd like to get a look at that garage before we alarm anyone."
Glassman eased the car in close to the curb, stopped it and shut off the motor. There was no sound, save for the beating of rain on the roof of the car.
"So far so good," he said.
"Got skeleton keys?" Burger asked.
"Sure," Glassman said. "You want me to get that garage open?"
"I'd like to take a look at the cars, yes."
Glassman opened the door, climbed out into the rain and turned a flashlight on the padlock which held the garage doors. He produced a bunch of keys from his pocket, and, after a moment nodded to Burger, and pulled back the sliding door of the garage.
The men opened the door of the garage.
"Be careful," Burger cautioned, "not to slam those doors shut. We don't want to alarm anyone until after we've looked the place over."
There were three cars in the garage. Glassman's flashlight flickered over them in turn. Mason stared with narrowed eyes at a new green Pontiac sedan. Burger, seeing the expression on his face, inquired, "Have you discovered something, Mason?"
Perry Mason shook his head.
Glassman's flashlight explored the registration certificates. "This one's in the name of Samuel C. Laxter," he said, indicating a custombuilt sports coupe with spare tires mounted in fender wells on either side. It was a powerful, lowhung car of glistening enamel and chrome steel.
"Sure built for speed," Burger muttered. "Turn your flashlight down here on the muffler, Tom."
Glassman swung the beam from his flashlight to the exhaust pipe, and Burger bent over to examine it. He nodded slowly. "Something's been clamped around here," he said.
"Well, let's go have a talk with Mr. Samuel Laxter and see what he has to say for himself," Glassman suggested.
Perry Mason, leaning nonchalantly against the side of the garage, tapped a cigarette on his thumb nail, preparatory to lighting it. "Of course, I don't want to interfere, but there's just the possibility you might find that flexible tubing if you looked hard enough."
"Where?" Burger asked.
"Some place in the car."
"What makes you think it's there?"
"The fire," Mason pointed out, "originated at a point in or near Laxter's bedroom. The garage was some little distance from that. They managed to save the automobiles that were in the garage. That bit of flexible tubing was a damaging piece of evidence which Laxter wouldn't ordinarily have left where it could be discovered. Of course, he may have hidden it afterwards, but there's a chance it's somewhere in the car."
Glassman, without enthusiasm, pulled the trigger which raised the back of the rumble seat, climbed into the car, and started exploring with his flashlight. He raised the front seat, opened the flap pocket, prowled around in the back of the car.
"There's a compartment here that's locked," Burger pointed out.
"For golf clubs," Glassman explained.
"See if one of your keys will fit it."
Glassman tried his keys, one after another, then shook his head.
"See if you can't pull that piece out in the back of the front seat and see down into it."
The car springs swayed as Glassman's heavy body moved around. Then he said in a muffled voice, "There's something down here that looks like a long vacuum sweeper tube."
"Jimmy the door open," Burger ordered, his voice showing excitement. "Let's take a look."
Glassman pried the lock, saying as he did so, "This isn't a very neat job. It's going to lead to an awful squawk if we're wrong."
"I'm commencing to think we're right," Burger remarked grimly.
Glassman reached in his hand and pulled out some twelve feet of flexible tubing. On one end were two adjustable bands which tightened with bolts and nuts. The other end contained a mushroomlike opening of soft rubber.
"Well," Burger said, "we'll get Laxter out of bed."
"Want us to wait in here?" Mason inquired.
"No, you can come up to the house and wait in the living room. It may not be very much of a wait. Pulling him out of bed like this, he may confess."
The big house sat well upon a hill. The garage was some distance from the house, having been excavated from the earth. Cement steps led up to a graveled walk. A private driveway from the garage swung up a more gentle incline, and circled the house, serving both as a driveway by which cars might be brought to the front door, as well as a service road by which fuel and supplies might be delivered to the back of the house.
The men climbed the stairs, moving silently in a compact group. At the top of the stairs, Burger paused. "Listen," he said, "what's that?"
From the misty darkness came the sound of a metallic clink, and, a moment later, it was followed by a peculiar scraping noise.
"Someone digging," Mason said in a low voice. "That's the noise made by a spade striking a loose rock."
Burger muttered, "By George, you're right. Mason, you and Drake keep back of us. Tom, you'd better have your flashlight ready, and put a gun in the side pocket of your coat—just in case."
Burger led the way forward. The four walked as quietly as possible, but the graveled walk crunched underfoot. Glassman muttered, "We can do better on the grass," and pushed over to the side of the walk. The others followed him. The grass was wet, the soil slightly soggy, but they were able to move forward in complete silence.
There were lights in the house which showed ribbons of illumination around the edges of the windows. The man who was digging kept plugging away.
"From behind that big vine," Glassman said.
It needed no comment from him to point the direction. The vine was agitated by a weight thrust against it. Drops of rain cascaded down from the leaves, were caught in a shaft of light coming from an uncurtained diamondshaped pane of glass in one of the doors and transformed into a golden spray.
The shovel made more noise.
"Scraping dirt back to fill up the hole," Mason remarked.
The beam from Glassman's flashlight stabbed through the darkness.
A startled figure jumped back and thrashed about in the vine, which, under the illumination of Glassman's flashlight, resolved itself into a climbing rosebush. Glassman said, "Come out, and be careful with your hands. This is the law."
"What are you doing here?" asked a muffled voice.
"Come on out," Glassman ordered.
The figure showed itself first as a black blotch in the midst of the glistening leaves, the wet surfaces of which reflected the illumination of the flashlight. Then, as it broke through the vine, Perry Mason caught a glimpse of the man's face and said to Burger, "It's Frank Oafley."
Burger moved forward. "What's your name?" he asked.
"I'm Oafley—Frank Oafley. I'm one of the owners of this place. Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"We're conducting a little inquiry," Burger said. "I'm the district attorney. This is Tom Glassman, my associate. What were you digging for?"
Oafley grunted, pulled a telegram from his pocket and held it out to the district attorney. The beam of the flashlight illuminated the telegram, a torn coatsleeve, a scratched, dirtcovered hand.
"You frightened me with that flashlight," he said. "I jumped right into the middle of those thorns. But it's all right. I was pretty well scratched up anyway. I guess my clothes are a wreck."
He looked down at his suit and laughed apologetically.
The four men paid no attention to him, but studied the telegram, which read:
THE KOLTSDORF DIAMONDS ARE HIDDEN IN ASHTON'S CRUTCH STOP MORE THAN HALF OF YOUR GRANDFATHERS MONEY IS BURIED JUST UNDER THE LIBRARY WINDOW WHERE THE CLIMBING ROSEBUSH STARTS UP THE TRELLIS WORK STOP THE SPOT IS MARKED BY A LITTLE STICK STUCK IN THE GROUND STOP IT ISN'T BURIED DEEP STOP NOT OVER A PEW INCHES
The telegram was signed simply "A Friend."
Glassman said in a low voice, "Looks like a genuine telegram. It cleared through the telegraph office."
"What did you find?" Burger asked.
Oafley, stepping forward to answer him, caught sight of Mason for the first time. He stiffened and said, "What's this man doing here?"
"He's here at my request," Burger said. "He's representing Charles Ashton, the caretaker. I had some questions I wanted to ask Ashton, and I wanted Mason to be along. Did you find anything where you were digging?"
"I found the stick," Oafley said, pulling a small stake from his pocket. "That was sticking in the ground. I dug clean through the loam and down to gravel. There wasn't anything there."
"Who sent the telegram?"
"You can search me."
Burger said in a low voice to Glassman, "Tom, take the key number of that message, get on the telephone and have the telegraph company dig up the original. Find out all you can about it. Get the address of the sender."
"Did you come out because of that telegram?" Oafley asked. "It's a rotten night. I shouldn't have gone out and dug, but you can realize how I felt after I got that message."
"We came out in connection with another matter," Burger said. "Where's Sam Laxter?"
Oafley seemed suddenly nervous. "He's out. What did you want to see him about?"
"We wanted to ask him some questions."
Oafley hesitated for a moment, then said slowly; "Have you been talking with Edith DeVoe?"
"No," Burger said, "I haven't."
Mason stared steadily at Oafley. "I have," he said.
"I knew you had," Oafley told him. "It's a wonder you wouldn't mind your own business."
"That'll do from you," Burger said. "Come on in the house. What's this about the Koltsdorf diamonds being hidden in Ashton's crutch?"
"You know just as much about it as I do," Oafley said sullenly.
"Sam isn't in?"
"No."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know—out an a daze, I guess."
"Okay," Burger said. "Let us in."
They climbed up to the tiled porch. Oafley produced a bunch of keys and opened the door. "If you'll excuse me a minute, I'll wash some of this mud off and slip on another suit of clothes."
"Wait a minute," Glassman said. "There's a million bucks involved, Buddy. We aren't doubting your word any, but we'd better frisk you and see…"
"Glassman," Burger warned, "Mr. Oafley isn't to be handled that way."
He turned to Oafley. "I'm sorry Mr. Glassman used exactly those words, but the thought is something which has occurred to me, and will doubtless occur to you. There's a large sum of money involved. Suppose the person who sent that telegram should claim you had been in the garden and found some or all of that money?"
"But I didn't find any. If I had, it would have been mine—half of it, anyway."
"Don't you think it might be better to have some corroborative evidence?" Burger asked.
"How could I get that?"
"You could submit to a voluntary search."
Oafley's face was sullen. "Go ahead," he said, "and search." They searched him.
Burger nodded his satisfaction. "It's just a check," he said, "on the situation. Perhaps you'll be glad later on you cooperated with us."
"I'll never be glad, but I'm not raising any very strenuous objections, because I can appreciate your position. May I go get my clothes changed now?"
Burger slowly shook his head. "Better not. Better sit down and wait. You'll dry out quickly."
Oafley sighed. "Well," he said, "let's have about four fingers of whiskey apiece. You look as though you chaps might have been out in the rain. Bourbon, rye or Scotch?"
"Whichever you come to," Mason said, "just so it's whiskey."
Oafley flashed him a speculative glance, rang a bell.
A man with a livid scar across his right cheekbone, which gave to his face a peculiar expression of leering triumph, appeared in a doorway. "You rang?" he asked Oafley.
"Yes," Oafley said. "Bring some whiskey, James. Bring some Scotch and soda and some of the Bourbon."
The man nodded, withdrew.
"Jim Brandon," Oafley said in an explanatory tone. "He acts both as chauffeur and butler."
"How was he hurt?" Burger inquired.
"Automobile accident, I believe… You're Mr. Burger, the district attorney?"
"Yes."
Oafley said slowly, "I'm sorry that Edith DeVoe said what she did."
"Why?"
"Because that fire wasn't started by the fumes from an automobile exhaust. It's impossible on the face of it."
Glassman said, "Where's your telephone?"
"There in the hallway. I'll show you… or James will show you."
"Never mind. You sit there and talk with the Chief. I'll find it all right."
Burger said, "Did you ever hear of carbon monoxide poisoning, Mr. Oafley?"
"Of course I have."
"Do you know that carbon monoxide is generated by an automobile engine when it's running?"
"But what's carbon monoxide got to do with it? It isn't an inflammable gas, is it?"
"It's a deadly gas."
Something in the grim finality of Burger's voice sent Oafley's eyebrows arching.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean that?… Why, it's unthinkable!.. Why, I can't believe…"
"Never mind what you can or cannot believe, Mr. Oafley. We want certain information. We stopped in the garage on the way up, and looked through Sam Laxter's machine. We found a long, flexible tube."
Oafley said without surprise, "Yes, Edith said she saw it quite distinctly."
"Just where is Sam Laxter now?"
"I don't know. He went out."
"How did he go out? His car's in the garage."
"Yes," Oafley said, "his car is. He didn't want to take it out and get it wet. The chauffeur drove him uptown in the Pontiac, then brought the Pontiac back. I don't know how Sam will come back, unless the Chevvy is uptown somewhere."
"The Chevvy?"
"Yes. It's a service car. Ashton usually drives it. We keep it for hauling things and running errands."
"You have a car?" Burger asked.
"Yes, the Buick in the garage is mine."
"And the big Pontiac?"
"That's the car my grandfather bought shortly before his death."
"The cars were saved when the house burned?"
"Yes, the garage was in the corner. It was one of the last things to go."
"In other words, the fire was started at some point removed from the garage?"
"It must have been started near grandfather's bedroom."
"Have you any ideas as to how it was started?"
"Not one… Look here, Mr. Burger. I would much prefer that you talked with Sam about this. My position is rather delicate. After all, Sam's related to me. Frankly, I had heard Edith DeVoe's story before, but I hadn't given it any attention. The carbon monoxide was, of course, a new thought to me. I simply can't believe it's possible. There must be some explanation."
Glassman entered the room carrying the telegram in his left hand. He stood in the doorway and made his report. "It's a genuine telegram all right. It was telephoned in. It was to be signed 'A Friend, but the telephone number of the sender was Exposition 62398. The phone's listed under the name of Winnie's Waffle Kitchen."
Mason got to his feet and said, "Baloney!"
"That will do, Mason," Burger told him. "You keep out of this."
"Like hell I will," Mason retorted. "You can't boss me, Burger. Winifred Laxter never sent that telegram."
Oafley stared at Tom Glassman. "Why," he said, "Winnie wouldn't send a telegram like that. There's some mistake."
"She sent it, all right," Glassman insisted.
"The hell she sent it!" Mason exploded. "It's a cinch to send a telegram over the telephone in someone else's name."
"Yeah," Glassman remarked. "Your clients always have someone conspiring against them."
"She isn't my client," Mason said.
"Just who is your client?"
Mason grinned, and remarked, "I think it's a cat."
There was a moment of silence. The noise of an automobile engine could be heard as a car climbed the incline. Headlights flashed for a moment against the window, then a horn blared its imperative summons. Jim Brandon, entering the room with a tray on which were whiskies and glasses, also syphons of soda, hurriedly set the tray down and started for the door as the horn blared again.
"That's Mister Sam," he said.
Burger caught the man's sleeve as he hurried past. "Don't be in too big a hurry," he suggested.
Glassman strode through the corridor, jerked open the front door just as the horn sounded again. "Go on out, Jim," he said, "and see what's wanted."
Jim Brandon switched on a porch light, stepped out to the porch. Sam Laxter called, "Jim, I've had a bit of an accident. You come and put the car away."
Burger pulled aside some drapes. The brilliant light from the porch illuminated a somewhat antiquated Chevrolet, with a broken windshield, a dented fender, and smashed bumper. Sam Laxter was climbing from the driver's seat. His face was cut. His right arm was bandaged with a bloody handkerchief.
Burger started for the door. Before he reached it, headlights again illuminated the drizzling night. A smoothly purring automobile swung into view, circled the driveway and came to a stop. The door of a big sedan opened. A slender figure jumped to the driveway, turned and ran excitedly toward the house, saw Sam Laxter and came to a surprised stop.
Perry Mason chuckled, and said to Burger, "We have with us none other than our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Nathaniel Shuster. During the course of the next half hour you can endeavor to discover whether he followed Sam Laxter because he knew you were going to be here or merely put in an accidental appearance."
Burger, muttering an exclamation of disgust, strode to the porch.
Shuster called, in a voice which was shrill with excitement, "Have you heard about it? Have you heard about it? Do you know what they're doing? Do you know what happened? They got an order to dig up your grandfather's body. They went out in the cemetery and dug it up."
Sam Laxter's bloodstained countenance showed surprised consternation. Frank Oafley, standing near Burger, said, "What the devil's this?"
"Take it easy," Glassman warned.
"I just found out about the order. I've made an investigation. They dug the body up already. Do you want me to take legal steps to…"
His voice trailed away into silence as he caught sight of Burger's figure standing in the light of the porch.
"Come in, Shuster," Burger said. "You'll get wet standing out there."
Rain glistened on Sam Laxter's face. The cut on his cheek dripped blood, unheeded. His lips were twisting with emotion. "What's the big idea?" he asked.
"I'm just making an investigation," Burger said, "and I wanted to ask you a few questions. Have you any objection?"
"Certainly not," Laxter replied, "but I don't like the way you're going about this thing. What was the idea digging up…"
"Not a question! Not a question!" Shuster shouted. "Not unless I am present, and not unless I tell you you should answer."
"Oh, bosh, Shuster!" Laxter said. "I can certainly answer any question the district attorney wants to put to me."
"Don't be foolish," Shuster screamed. "It's not an investigation by the district attorney, it's stirred up by that busybody, Mason. It's all over this damned cat. Don't answer them. Don't answer anything. The first thing you know, you'll be outside in the cold, and then what? All your inheritance gone. Mason sitting in the saddle. Winifred inheriting your property. The cat laughing…"
"Shut up, Shuster," Burger said. "I'm going to talk with Sam Laxter, and I'm going to talk with him without having to put up with a lot of your insane interruptions. Come in the house, Laxter. Do you need a doctor to dress those wounds?"
"I don't think so," Laxter said. "I skidded and hit a telephone pole. It shook me up a bit and I've got a bad cut on the right forearm, but it only needs washing with a good antiseptic and a clean bandage. I may have a doctor look at it later, but I won't keep you waiting."
Shuster ran toward him. "Please!" he said. "I beg of you! I implore you! Don't do it!"
"Shut up," Burger said once more, taking Sam's arm as Sam walked up the steps toward him.
Laxter and Burger entered the house, closely followed by Glassman. Shuster slowly climbed the stairs, moving like an old man whose every step was an effort.
Mason watched the three men cross the living room and disappear through a door. He entered the living room and sat down. Drake pulled a cigarette from his pocket, sat crosswise on an overstuffed chair and said, "Well, that's that."
Jim Brandon stood in the doorway and said to Shuster, "I don't know if you're supposed to come in or not."
"Don't be silly," Shuster told him, and then lowered his voice, saying something which was inaudible to Mason and the detective. Brandon also lowered his voice. The two men engaged in a conversation conducted in a low monotone.
The telephone rang repeatedly. After several minutes, a fat woman with sleepswollen eyes came shuffling down the corridor, wrapping a bathrobe about her. She picked up the telephone, said «Hello» in a drowsy, uncordial voice, then, her face showing surprise, she said, "Oh, yes, Miss Winifred… Why, I could call him. He's asleep, of course… Tell him to have Mr. Mason call you at once at…"
Perry Mason crossed toward the telephone. "If that's someone asking for Mr. Mason," he said, "I'm here and will talk on the telephone."
The woman handed him the receiver. "It's Miss Winifred Laxter," she said.
Mason said «Hello» and heard Winifred's voice, hysterical with excitement. "Thank God I was able to reach you. I didn't know where to get you so I called for Ashton to leave a message for you. Something terrible has happened. You must come at once."
Mason's voice was guarded. "I'm rather occupied here at present. Could you tell me generally what has happened?"
"I don't know, but Douglas is in serious trouble… You know Douglas, you met him… Douglas Keene."
"And what has happened to him?"
"I don't know, but I must see you at once."
"I'll leave here," Mason told her, "within ten minutes. That's the best I can do. There's another matter here I'm interested in. Where will I find you?"
"I'll be at the waffle place. There won't be any lights on—just open the door and come in."
Mason said crisply, "Okay, I leave here in ten minutes."
Mason hung up the receiver as Shuster, leaving Brandon at the door, crossed the hallway with quick, nervous strides. He grabbed the lapel of Mason's coat.
"You can't do it!" he said. "You can't get away with it! It's outrageous. I'll have you brought up before the Grievance Committee. It's pettifogging."
Mason placed the flat of his hand against the man's chest, pushed him out at arm's length and said, "You should go in the lecture business, Shuster. No one could ever accuse you of delivering a dry lecture."
Mason pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face. Shuster jumped about as excitedly as a terrier barking at a steer. "You knew you couldn't break the will; that will is as good as gold. So what did you do? You started in trying to frame up a murder charge on my clients. You can't make it stick! You and your caretaker are going to find yourselves in plenty of trouble. Plenty of trouble! You hear me? You…"
He broke off as District Attorney Burger, accompanied by Tom Glassman, reentered the room. Burger's features were puzzled. "Mason," he said, "do you know anything about diamonds your client Ashton has?"
Mason shook his head. "We can ask him," he suggested.
"I think we want to talk with him," Burger said. "Apparently he's mixed up in this thing."
Mason nodded.
Shuster said, "A damned outrage! A frameup! Mason cooked this up in order to bust the will."
Mason's smile was tolerant as he remarked, "I told you, Shuster, that I always hit in an unexpected place."
"Do you wish me to call the caretaker?" the flabby woman in the wrapper asked, as Oafley, in bathrobe and slippers, shuffled into the room.
"Who are you?" Burger inquired.
"The housekeeper," Oafley interposed. "Mrs. Pixley."
"I think we'll go and interview the caretaker without giving him previous notice," Burger announced.
"Look here," Mason said. "In view of the circumstances, don't you think it would be fair to let me know just what it is you're after?"
"Come along," Burger said, "and you'll find out, but don't interrupt to ask questions or give advice."
Shuster darted around the table. "You've got to watch him," he warned. "He's hatched up this whole business."
"Dry up," Tom Glassman said over his shoulder.
"Go on," Burger said to Mrs. Pixley; "show us the way."
The woman moved along the hallway, her bedroom slippers slopping against her heels as she walked. Paul Drake fell into step beside Perry Mason. Oafley dropped behind, for a word with Shuster. Burger held Sam Laxter's arm.
"Funnylooking character—the housekeeper," Drake remarked in a low voice. "All soft except her mouth and it's hard enough to make up for everything."
"Underneath that softness," Mason said, his eyes appraising the woman's figure, "is a great deal of strength. Her muscles are cased in fat, but she's plenty husky. Notice the way she carries herself."
The woman led the way down a flight of stairs to a basement. She opened a door, crossed a cement floor, paused in front of another door, and said, "Shall I knock?"
"Not unless it's locked," Burger told her.
She turned the knob of the door and stepped to one side, pushing open the door.
Mason couldn't see the interior of the room but he could see her face. He saw light from the inside of the room strike her features. He saw the flabby flesh of her face freeze in an expression of wild terror. He saw the hard lips sag open, and then heard her scream.
Burger jumped forward. The housekeeper swayed, flung up her hands, and her knees sagged as she slid to the floor. Glassman jumped through the door into the caretaker's room. Oafley caught the housekeeper by the armpits. "Steady," he said. "Take it easy. What's the trouble?"
Mason pushed past them into the room.
Charles Ashton's bed was by an open window in the basement. The window opened almost directly at street level. It had been propped open with a stick, the opening being some four or five inches, just enough to enable a cat to slip through easily.
Directly beneath the window was the bed, covered with a white counterpane and on this white counterpane was a series of muddy cat tracks, tracks which covered not only the spread, but appeared on the pillow as well.
Lying in the bed, his face an unpleasant thing to behold, was the dead body of Charles Ashton. It needed but one look at the bulging eyes and protruding tongue to enable these experts in homicide to realize the manner in which the man had died.
Burger whirled to Glassman.
"Keep the people out of this room," he warned. "Get the homicide squad on the telephone. Don't let Sam Laxter out of your sight until this thing has been cleaned up. I'll stay here and look around. Get started!"
Glassman whirled, thrust his shoulder against Perry Mason. "On your way," he said.
Mason left the room. Glassman slammed the door shut. "Let me get to the telephone. Oafley, don't try to leave the place."
"Why should I try to leave the place?" Oafley demanded indignantly.
"Don't make any statements! Don't make any statements! Don't make any statements!" Shuster pleaded hysterically. "Keep quiet! Let me do the talking. Can't you understand? It's a murder! Don't talk with them. Don't have anything to do with them. Don't…"
Glassman stepped forward belligerently. "You can either keep your face closed," he said, "or I'll button up your lips so they'll stay shut for a while."
Shuster scuttled away from him like a squirrel climbing a tree, chattering continuously. "No statement. No statement at all. Can't you understand that I'm your lawyer? You don't know what these people have said about you. You don't know what accusations they've made. Keep quiet. Let me do the talking for you."
"There's no necessity for such talk," Oafley said to Shuster. "I'm just as anxious to help clean this thing up as the officers are. You're hysterical. Shut up!"
The party climbed the stairs. Perry Mason, dropping behind, put his lips close to Paul Drake's ear. "Stick around, Paul," he said, "and see what happens. Get an eyeful if you can and an earful if you can't."
"You're ducking?" Drake asked.
"I'm ducking," Mason said.
At the head of the stairs leading from the cellar, Glassman hurried toward a telephone. Perry Mason turned to the right, crossed a kitchen, unlocked a door, crossed a screened porch, descended a flight of stairs, and found himself in the rainy night.