Mason folded a twenty-dollar bill and slid it into the palm of the girl at the switchboard in the Santa Del Rios Hotel. "All I ask," he said, "is that you get her on the line for me. I'll take care of things after that."
"I have positive orders," she demurred. "She's been deluged by newspaper reporters."
"And she's dodging publicity?"
"I'll say. She's overcome with grief."
"Yeah," Mason said, "overcome with grief because she's inherited a few million and is going to get her paws on it."
"Are you a newspaper man?" the girl at the switchboard asked. Mason shook his head. "What then?"
"To you," Mason told her, "I'm Santa Claus."
She sighed and her fingers closed over the twenty dollars. "If I nod my head," she said, "get in booth two. I'll have her on the line. That's all I can do."
"That's all you have to do," Mason told her. "What's her number?"
"She's in Suite A on the second floor."
"Okay," Mason remarked and stepped back from the desk. The nimble fingers of the girl flew over the switchboard. From time to time she talked into the mouthpiece which was held in position on her chest so that the curved rubber transmitter was within a few inches of her lips. Suddenly she turned to Mason and nodded. Mason entered the booth, picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." A feminine voice of silken texture said, "Yes, what is it?"
Mason said, "I'm Mr. Mason here in the hotel, and I think I should discuss with you arrangements we're perfecting to keep newspaper reporters from bothering you. We've had a perfect swarm of them down here. They've been ordered to get interviews or else, and unless we cooperate I'm afraid you'll be seriously annoyed."
The voice said, "That'll be fine, Mr. Mason. I appreciate what you're doing."
"May I come up now?" Mason asked.
"Yes. Go to 209 and tap on the door. I'll let you in through there. Don't come to Suite A. I think that's being watched by the newspaper men."
Mason thanked her, hung up, took the elevator to the second floor and knocked on the door of 209. It was opened by an attractive young woman in green lounging pajamas who flashed him a seductive smile and locked the door behind him. Then she led the way through connecting doors across two bathrooms and three conventionally furnished hotel bedrooms, into a corner suite at the end of the wing, where luxurious furnishings and deep carpets created the atmosphere of a palatial home.
She nodded toward a chair and said, "How about a cigarette and a little Scotch and soda?"
"Thanks," said Mason.
While he selected a cigarette, she poured Scotch from a cut-glass decanter into a tall glass, dropped in ice cubes and squirted carbonated water into the glass. "Have you heard any news?" she asked. "Have they found Grandfather's body?"
"Not yet," he told her. "This must be quite a shock to you."
"It is," she said, "a terrible shock," and placed a jeweled hand to her eyes.
"Can you," Mason said, settling back in his chair, "remember anything of your early childhood?"
"Why of course," she told him, removing her hand and staring at him in steady appraisal.
"You were an adopted child, I believe."
"Say, what's the idea?" she asked, her eyes suddenly wary, her muscles stiffening as though she were ready to run. "You said you wanted to see me about keeping out newspaper reporters."
Mason nodded easily and said, "That was the stall Pete told me to use to fool the telephone girl. I supposed he'd tipped you off on it."
"Pete?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"Sure," Mason said, blowing out a casual puff of cigarette smoke.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Mason frowned impatiently. "Listen! I haven't got all day on this thing. Pete Sacks and Victor Stockton told me to get in touch with you. Pete said not to let you know who I was, because he was afraid someone might be listening in on the telephone calls, so I was to pull that stall about keeping the newspaper reporters away from you, and he was to tip you off what it meant so I wouldn't have any trouble getting in. When you told me to come on up, I figured of course Pete had been in touch with you."
Her eyes studied the pink polish on her fingernails for almost ten seconds before she said, "Who are you?"
Mason said, "Look here; there's no chance Pete's double-crossing both of us, is there? You came over on the Monterey with Bishop Mallory, didn't you?"
She nodded her head, started to say something, then changed her mind, hesitated a moment.
Mason heard the faint sound of a door-latch clicking behind him, but was afraid to turn his head.
"Just who are you?" the girl asked again, and this time her voice seemed filled with more confidence.
A man standing in the doorway said, "His name's Perry Mason. He's a lawyer representing a couple of blackmailers who are trying to shake down the estate for a nice piece of change."
Mason slowly turned and encountered the steely eyes of Victor Stockton.
"A lawyer!" Janice Brownley exclaimed, getting to her feet, her voice showing consternation.
"Yes. What have you told him?"
"Nothing."
Stockton nodded and said to Mason, "It's time you and I had a little talk."
Mason said grimly, "When I talk to you, it'll be on the witness stand and under oath."
Stockton moved easily across the room, dropped into a chair and said, "Pour me a drink, Janice." His watchful eyes didn't leave Mason's face.
Janice Brownley splashed Scotch into a glass and fumbled for ice cubes with the silver tongs. Stockton settled back in the chair comfortably and said to Mason, "Don't be too sure. There's a warrant out for your arrest."
"For my arrest!" Mason exclaimed.
Stockton nodded and grinned. "Grand larceny, assault with a deadly weapon, and robbery," he said.
Mason's shrewd eyes studied the other man in critical appraisal. "Because of Sacks?" he asked.
"Because of Sacks," Stockton said. "You can't pull that stuff and get away with it."
Mason remarked grimly, "The hell I can't. You haven't seen anything yet. I was going to let the matter drop. But if you want to go ahead with it, we'll see where you get off. Sacks tried to commit murder. He pulled a gun on me and I smashed his nose and took it away from him. He got off lucky."
Stockton said to Janice Brownley, "Not too much soda Janice." He turned his frosty back to Mason and said, "Listen, I'm a detective. Pete's working for me. We've known for more than three weeks an attempt was going to be made to shake Brownley down. I didn't know just how it was going to be done. I figured it would be played through some lawyer. A smart lawyer would have kept himself in the clear by going to Brownley first and then letting Janice come to him with a proposition. A boob would have laid himself wide open to blackmail charges by coming to Janice first. In either event, it was a shakedown, so I figured on beating you to the punch. I tipped the old man off, and I told Janice just what she could expect. We were laying for you. Then you stole a march on us by killing the old man… Now, keep your shirt on. I don't say you did it, but you know who did it and I know who did it. That's put us in a funny spot, particularly if there isn't any will, or if the will should leave property to the granddaughter without specifying that by the word granddaughter he means the girl who is living in his house with him."
Janice Brownley silently handed him the glass. Stockton clinked the ice against the sides of the glass and raised it to his lips.
"So what?" Mason asked.
Stockton said, "You'd like to have me tell you that if you'd step out of the case, Pete Sacks would drop the charges against you. Then you'd use that statement to show the D.A. we were trying to use him for a cat's-paw. Well, Mr. Perry Mason, you've got another guess coming. That's a trap I'm not walking into."
"I'm still listening," Mason told him.
Stockton said slowly, measuring his words with scrupulous care, "It might be better business for Janice to make some sort of compromise. It's going to be darned near impossible for her to prove her relationship. On the other hand, it's going to be utterly impossible for anyone to disprove it."
"You have something in mind?" Mason asked.
"Have you?" Stockton countered.
"No."
"No offer of settlement?"
"None whatever."
Stockton said, "All right then, we're going to fight every inch of the way. There'll be no compromise. You've seen fit to mix in this thing, and now you're going to take it right on the chin. If you'd stayed in your office, minding your own business and practicing law, you'd have been in the clear. You didn't do that. You went running around, playing detective and acting smart. Now you've bit into something, and I'm going to let you try and chew it. Julia Branner had a pipe-dream which didn't work, so she bumped Brownley off to keep him from making a will which would knock her scheme into a cocked hat. It might have been a swell break if Bixler hadn't seen the whole thing. The way it stands now, Julie Branner's going to be convicted of murder as a principal. The girl she's trying to palm off as her daughter is going to be convicted of being an accessory after the fact, and you're going to be disbarred and convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, grand larceny, and robbery. After that, you can figure how a jury will feel about giving you three birds a slice of the estate-And don't slam the door as you go out."
Mason said, "I'm not slamming any doors just yet. And, by the way, Janice, where were you when your grandfather was killed?"
Stockton set down his glass. His face darkened a shade. "So," he said, "you're going to try something like that, eh?"
"I just asked a question," Mason said.
"Well, you ask too damn many questions. And, in case you want to know, Janice has a perfect alibi. She was with me."
A slow smile spread over Mason's face and he said, "Well, now isn't that nice. Janice is a ringer you've planted on the old man. She's about to get shown up and you are desperate so you…"
"Steal Julia Branner's gun, forge her name to a letter, and bump off the old man," Stockton interrupted. "The weak part about that is the taxi driver knows it was Julia who sent the message which lured the old man down to the beach. It was Julia Branner's fingerprints the police found on the car where she'd hung onto the window while she emptied her gun into him. It was Julia Branner's gun that did the killing, and it was Julia Branner's wet clothes the police found in her apartment when they made the pinch, before she'd quite got in bed."
"And in addition," Janice Brownley said, "there were…"
"Keep out of this, Janice," Stockton interrupted, without shifting his eyes from the lawyer. "I'll do the talking."
"Yes," Mason said sarcastically, "he's your alibi, Janice. He swears you were with him when the murder was committed, so you couldn't have done it, and you swear he was with you, so he couldn't have done it."
Stockton grinned and said, "And don't forget my wife. She was there, and a notary public who lives across the hall that I'd called in to make an additional witness." Stockton finished the last of his drink. His grin was slow, deliberate and unfriendly. "I've told you enough so you can see what you're up against," he said, "and that's all you're going to find out from us."
"What do you want?" Mason asked.
"Nothing."
"What's your proposition?"
Stockton grinned and said, "We haven't any. And what's more, we aren't going to make any. You're going to be too much on the defensive from now on to rig up any more blackmailing schemes."
Mason said sarcastically, "I presume that after Pete Sacks broke into Bishop Mallory's room, sapped the bishop with a blackjack and stole the bishop's private papers, the D.A. will consider it a felony for someone who's representing Bishop Mallory to recover the papers?"
Stockton shook his head. "Don't be funny. You know why you framed Pete into that trap just as well as I do. You wanted the key."
There was genuine surprise in Mason's voice. "The key?" he asked.
Stockton nodded.
"What key?"
"The one you got," Stockton said grimly. "Don't play so damn innocent."
"I got a bunch of keys," Mason said.
"As well as a hundred dollars in cash and a few other things. But what you wanted was the key."
Mason kept his face without expression. Stockton studied him for a moment and said, "Don't act so damn innocent.-Hell, you may be just a sucker, at that. How the hell do you suppose we knew the inside of this blackmail racket? We had a line into Julia Brownley before she even came to California. She figured Pete was a torpedo who was willing to bump anyone off, and she played right into his hands. She put up a proposition to Pete to kill Brownley before he could make another will. She had a man who was going to pose as Bishop Mallory long enough to make a deposition which would identify Janice Seaton as the real granddaughter. This bishop was a phoney who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was to play. She might have fooled the old man, or she might even have been able to get a shake-down from Janice here, if she hadn't spilled the whole dope to Pete. She was playing Pete to be her right-hand man. She was going to get some lawyer who could put up a good fight, sell him on her story, and let him contact Brownley. If Brownley was willing to kick through in order to avoid a stink, she'd settle. If Brownley got tough she was going to bump him off, and Pete was the one she'd picked to do the dirty work. She gave Pete a key to her apartment and promised him twenty-five percent of whatever she and Janice Seaton got out of the deal. And, just to show you what a sucker you are, she'd even planned to contact the old man behind your back after you'd broken the ice. She was going to make a settlement with him and leave you out in the cold, and if she couldn't scare the old man into a settlement she was going to try and shake the granddaughter down for a few thousand and leave you holding the sack.-At that she might have had us worried if we hadn't had Pete in on the ground floor.
"After the murder, you were mixed in so deep you had to get her out in order to get yourself out. You had to get that key from Pete, because that key corroborated his testimony. So you trapped Pete into an apartment where you could beat him up and grab the evidence, but we've got just a little more on Julia Branner than you figured. You've made your bed, and now you can lie in it."
Mason got to his feet. Stockton set down the empty glass, took a step toward Mason and said, "And don't come here any more. Do you get that?"
Mason stared at the man moodily. "I have," he said, slowly, "already smashed one nose, and I'd just as soon smash another."
Stockton stood still, neither retreating nor advancing. "And you have already stolen some papers which were evidence in the case," he said. "When Pete tried to get back that evidence you swung on him and pulled a gun on me. Don't forget that. And if you keep on playing around with this bunch of blackmailers you're tied up with, you'll probably find yourself mixed in a murder charge."
Mason strode toward the door, but turned in the doorway. "How much of a cut are you supposed to get out of the inheritance for having dug up an heir to the estate?" he asked.
Stockton grinned mirthlessly and said, "Don't bother about it now, Mason. Write me a letter from San Quentin. You'll have more time to think things over when you get up there."
Mason left the room, took the elevator to the lobby, and was halfway across the sidewalk when someone touched him on the arm. He whirled to encounter Philip Brownley. "Hello," he said, "what are you doing here?"
Brownley said grimly, "I'm keeping watch on Janice."
"Afraid something's going to happen to her?" Mason asked.
Brownley shook his head and said, "Look here, Mr. Mason, I want to talk with you."
"Go on and talk," Mason told him.
"Not here."
"Where?"
"My car's parked at the curb. I saw you go in, and called to you, but you didn't hear me. I was waiting for you to come out. Let's sit in my car and talk."
Mason said, "I don't like the climate around here. A man by the name of Stockton is playing smart… Do you know Stockton?"
Brownley said slowly, "He's the one who helped Janice kill Grandfather."
Mason's eyes bored steadily into Brownley's. "Are you just talking?" he asked. "Or are you saying something?"
"I'm saying something."
"Where's your car?"
"Over here."
"All right. Let's get in it."
Brownley opened the door of a big gray cabriolet and slid in behind the steering wheel. Mason climbed in beside him, sitting next to the curb, and pulled the door shut.
"This your car?" he asked.
"Yes."
"All right, what about Janice?"
There were dark circles under Brownley's eyes. His face was white and haggard. He lit a cigarette with a hand that trembled, but when he spoke his voice was steady. "I took the message the cab driver left last night-or rather this morning," he said.
"What did you do with it?"
"Took it up to my grandfather."
"Was he asleep?"
"No. He'd gone to bed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was reading a book."
"So what?" Mason asked.
"He read the message and got excited as the devil. He jumped into his clothes and told me to have someone get his car out, that he was going down to the beach to meet Julia Branner; that Julia had promised to give him back Oscar's watch if he'd come alone without being followed and go aboard his yacht where she could talk with him without being interrupted."
"He told you that?" Mason asked.
"Yes."
"What did you do?"
"I advised him not to go."
"Why?"
"I thought it was a trap."
Mason's eyes narrowed slowly. "Did you think someone would try to kill him?"
"No. Of course not. But I thought they might try to trap him into some compromising situation, or into making statements."
Mason nodded. There was a moment or two of silence, and then the lawyer said. "Go on. This is your party. You're doing the talking."
"I went down personally and opened the garage so Grandfather could get his car out. When he came down I begged him to let me drive him. It was a mean night, and Grandfather isn't… wasn't… so much of a driver. He couldn't see well at night."
"And he wouldn't let you drive?" Mason asked.
"No. He said he must go alone; that Julia's letter insisted he must be alone and that no one must follow him, otherwise he'd have his trip for nothing."
"Where is this note?"
"I think Grandfather put it in his coat pocket."
"Go ahead… No, wait a minute. He told you he was going to his yacht?"
"That's what I understood him to say; that Julia wanted to meet him aboard the yacht."
"All right. Go ahead."
"Well, he went out of the garage and I went back to the house, and there was Janice, all dressed and waiting for me."
"What did she want?" Mason asked.
"She said she'd heard the commotion and thought perhaps there was something wrong and wanted to know…"
"Wait a minute," Mason interrupted. "How was she dressed-in evening clothes, or what?"
"No, she had on a sport outfit."
"Go on," Mason said.
"She wanted to know what had happened, and I told her. She was furious with me for letting Grandfather go, and said I should have stopped him."
"Then what?"
"Then I told her she was crazy; that I couldn't have held him with a block and tackle, and I went upstairs. I waited for her to come up. I heard her come up just behind me, and then, after a minute or two, I heard her leave her room and start downstairs again. So I sneaked out in the hall and took a look down the stairs. She was tiptoeing so as not to make any noise, and she was wearing a rain coat."
"What sort of a rain coat?" Mason asked tonelessly.
"A very light yellow rain coat."
Mason pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it silently. "Go on," he said.
"She sneaked downstairs," Brownley said, "and I followed her."
"Trying not to make any noise?"
"Yes, of course."
"Go on."
"She went to the garage and took out her car."
"What sort of a car?"
"A light yellow Cadillac coupe."
Mason settled back against the cushions. "You saw her leave?"
"Yes."
"How long after your grandfather left?"
"Just a minute or two."
"All right, what did you do?"
"I waited until she'd left the garage and then I sprinted for my car and got it started. I didn't turn on the lights, and followed her."
"Could you keep her car in sight?"
"Yes."
"You had told her your grandfather was going down to his yacht to meet Julia?"
"Yes."
"And she went down to the beach?" Mason asked.
"I don't know. That's what I wanted to tell you about."
"But I thought you said you'd followed her!"
"I did, as well as I could."
"Go ahead," Mason told him. "Tell me in your own way just what happened, but tell it to me fast. It may be important as hell."
"She was driving like the devil," Brownley said, "and it was raining pitchforks. I had to keep my lights out, and it was all I could do to follow her…"
"Skip all that," Mason told him. "You followed her, did you?"
" Yes."
"Okay. Where did she go?"
"She went down Figueroa to Fifty-second Street, and then she turned off and parked the car."
"On Figueroa, or on Fifty-second?"
"On Fifty-second."
"What did you do?"
"Slid my car into the curb on Figueroa, switched off the ignition and jumped out."
"And of course that's on the road to the beach," Mason commented musingly.
Brownley nodded.
"Go on," Mason told him impatiently. "What happened?"
"She was walking ahead of me in the rain. In fact, she was running."
"Could you see her?"
"Yes. The light yellow rain coat showed up as a light patch. I ran as hard as I could without making any noise, and of course, I could go faster than she could. That light-colored rain coat was easy to follow. I could see it indistinctly, but you know how it would be…"
"Yes. I know," Mason said. "Where did she go?"
"She walked four blocks."
"Walked four blocks!" Mason exclaimed.
"Yes."
"Why didn't she drive?"
"I don't know."
"You mean to say she was driving a light yellow Cadillac coupe and she parked it on Fifty-second just off Figueroa and then walked four blocks through a driving rain?"
"She ran most of the way."
"I don't care whether she was running or walking. What I mean is, she left the car and went on foot?"
"Yes."
"Where did she go?"
"There's a little apartment house there. I don't think it has over eight or ten apartments in it. It's a frame house, and she went in there."
"Any lights?" Mason asked.
"Yes. There were lights on the second floor in the right-hand corner and on one side-it's only a two-story building. The shades were drawn, but I could see the light through the shades, and occasionally I could see a shadow moving across the curtains."
"You mean you stayed there and watched?"
"That's right."
"How long?"
"Until after daylight."
Mason gave a low whistle.
"I went up to look the place over," Brownley said, "and as nearly as I could figure from the mail boxes, the front apartment was in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Victor Stockton. I couldn't tell whether the side apartment which was lighted was in the name of Jerry Franks or Paul Montrose."
"And you stayed there until after daylight?"
"Yes."
"Then what happened?"
"Well, after it got light I moved farther away of course. And then I could see the back of the building as well as the front. There were a bunch of vacant lots along there and I found one where I could stay and watch."
"And it had quit raining then?"
"It was just quitting."
"Then what happened?"
"Then Janice and a short, chunky fellow, with a felt hat, came out of the place and walked rapidly down the sidewalk toward Figueroa Street. It was daylight then and I didn't dare to crowd them too closely. I waited until they'd got quite a start. You know, it wasn't bright daylight, just the gray of dawn."
"And Janice was wearing her rain coat?"
"Yes."
"The same one she had worn earlier?"
"Yes, of course."
"What did she do?"
"She and this fellow climbed in her car and turned it around and started back toward town. I made a run for my car, but by the time I got into it, started it and turned around they were far enough away to be out of sight. I stepped on the gas and finally caught up to where I could see them. I turned up the collar of my overcoat so they wouldn't recognize me, and turned on my headlights so it would be hard for them to see what the car looked like."
"But they knew, of course, you were following, after you turned your headlights on?"
"I guess so, yes. But they didn't slow down any or try to ditch me."
"There were other cars on the road?"
"Not very many. I think I met one or two, and maybe passed one. I can't be certain. I was watching Janice."
"And what did she do?"
"She drove directly to this hotel. She and this man got out. I had a chance to see him then. I think he has gray eyes and a gray mustache. He wears glasses and…"
"Ever see him again?" Mason asked.
"Yes. He's up there now. He went in about fifteen or twenty minutes ago."
"The same man?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Look here," Mason said slowly, "there was a back exit from that apartment house?"
"Yes."
"Did you watch it while you were shadowing the place?"
"No. That's what I've been trying to explain. I watched the front and that was all. After it got light enough to see, I got where I could see both front and back, but that was only a few minutes before they came out."
"And lights were on in these apartments when Janice got there?"
"Yes."
"And you stayed there all the time, watching the place?"
"Yes."
"But she might have gone in the front, out the back and then returned through the back door any time before daylight. Is that right?"
"Yes, of course she could have done that."
"And you think she did?"
Brownley nodded.
"What makes you think so?"
"Because she was desperate. She's an impostor. She was going to be showed up and sent to jail."
Mason said slowly, "The thing doesn't make sense."
Brownley's tone was impatient. "I'm not claiming it makes sense," he said. "I'm telling you what happened."
Mason frowned thoughtfully at the tip of his cigarette for several minutes, then slowly opened the door of the car.
"Have you told anyone about this?" he asked.
"No. Should I?"
Mason nodded and said, "Yes, you'd better tell the D.A."
"How will I get in touch with him?"
"Don't worry," Mason said grimly, "they'll get in touch with you," and slammed the door of the car shut behind him.