He put in a call for Winifred Laxter, heard her voice on the telephone, "It's okay, Winifred," he said. "Your boyfriend came through like the trump that I knew he was."
"You mean… he's in touch with you?"
"He's in jail," Mason said.
She gave a gasp.
"And," Mason promised her grimly, "he won't stay there long. Don't try to get in touch with me. I won't be at my office. I'll call you as soon as there's anything new. Don't give out any statements to the press, in case any reporters should start looking for interviews. Pose for all the pictures they want, back of your waffle counter, or in front of the place. If you play it right, you should get a lot of advertisement for Winnie's Waffles."
"Advertisement!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "I want Douglas. I want to go to him. I want to see him."
"That's the one thing you can't do. If they'd let you in to see him he'd talk to you, and I don't want him to talk. They probably wouldn't let you in anyway. I don't think it's going to be long now until I have the case cleared up."
"You don't think Douglas is guilty, do you?"
Perry Mason laughed lightheartedly. "No boy that came through the way he did is guilty of anything," he said. "The kid's young, and he lost his head. You can't blame him for that. He was confronted with a frameup that would have stampeded an older man."
"Then it was a frameup?"
"Of course, it was a frameup."
"May I quote you as saying that—you know, in case someone…"
"You may not," he told her. "For the next fortyeight hours you may concentrate your attention upon making waffles. Goodby. I'm catching a train," and he hung up before she could protest.
Mason dropped another coin and called Drake's office. Paul Drake, himself, answered the telephone.
"Got a lot for you, Perry," he said. "Do you want it over the telephone?"
"Spill it."
"It's an earful."
"What is it?"
"There was a poker game going on—in the apartment house where Edith DeVoe was murdered. The poker game was on the same floor."
"So what?" Mason inquired.
"So one of the participants in the poker game, reading about the murder, considers it his civic duty to report to the police all about the poker game and about a mysterious gentleman who broke in on the game, saying he was the occupant of an adjoining apartment. That was just about the time the police showed up, and the man had an idea the chap might have been connected with the crime. The police showed him photographs of all the principals in the crime and then, after they checked up on his descriptions, showed him a photograph of you, and he identified it instantly."
"The moral of that story," Mason said, "is: Don't play cards with strangers. What are the cops doing? Are they taking it seriously?"
"I think they are. Sergeant Holcomb is all worked up about it. You sure as hell do get around, don't you, Perry?"
"I can't spend all my time in my office," Mason grinned. "This was after office hours, wasn't it?"
"Yeah. I thought you should know about it. But here's another funny development. The bird identified one of the other pictures—that of Sam Laxter. He said that he'd seen Sam in the corridor about eleven fifteen. They confronted him with Laxter and he made a positive identification."
"What does Sam say?"
"He isn't saying anything. Shuster is doing all the talking. Shuster says the man was drunk; that the illumination in the hallway wasn't good; that Sam wasn't anywhere near the place; that the man's a publicity seeker; and that Sam Laxter and Douglas Keene look very much alike and that Keene was the one the man saw; that the man wasn't wearing glasses, and that he's a liar."
"That's all he's said so far?" Mason asked, grinning into the transmitter.
"Yeah, but give the boy a little time and he'll think up something else."
"I'll say he will. Have the police put Sam under arrest?"
"They're questioning him in the district attorney's office."
"And Shuster isn't present?"
"Shuster naturally isn't present, and Sam isn't talking."
"Do they know just when Edith DeVoe was killed?" Mason asked.
"No. She was dead when the ambulance arrived. Her skull was fractured. Death itself took place shortly before the ambulance got there, but when the blow was struck is another question. She may have died instantly. She may have been unconscious for an hour or two and then died. They can't fix the time of the attack. The police know about the marriage now. They've got a statement from Milton, and Oafley has told them all he knows. The marriage ceremony took place right around ten o'clock. The boys from the poker game came in and helped celebrate. They were in there fifteen or twenty minutes. Then they left. Oafley says he left about ten minutes to eleven."
"Rather strange that Oafley should leave within an hour after the ceremony was performed," Mason said slowly.
"As far as Oafley's concerned, he's in the clear," Drake said. "The officers have checked his story. He left about ten minutes to eleven. He arrived at the house about five or ten minutes after eleven. That gives him a perfect alibi on the Ashton killing. Ashton was killed right around ten thirty. Four or five people can prove that Oafley was in Edith DeVoe's apartment as late as ten twenty anyway, and one person saw him leaving the apartment house a few minutes before eleven. The housekeeper saw him come in about ten minutes after eleven."
"Could Oafley have smashed Edith DeVoe's head before he left her apartment?"
"No, she was alive at eleven o'clock. She knocked on the door where the boys were playing poker and asked to borrow some matches."
"Everyone in the case seems to have been going to Edith DeVoe's apartment last night," Mason said thoughtfully. "She must have been holding a reception."
"It's only natural," Drake told him, "when you consider that she'd been telling what she knew about Sam Laxter. These things get around, you know.
"Frankly, Perry, you've got a swell break. Things look pretty black for Sam Laxter right now. The only alibi he has to tie to is that he was in Shuster's office while Ashton was being murdered. It's now come out that Shuster had been tipped off when Burger made arrangements to exhume Peter Laxter's body, so Shuster telephoned Sam and Sam came to his office."
"Find out anything about that Chevrolet?" Mason asked.
"I can't prove it's the same Chevrolet," Drake said, "but a couple of people noticed an old Chewy with a crumpled fender parked in front of the apartment house where Edith DeVoe lived, about eleven o'clock. One witness remembered it because he said there was a new Buick parked right behind it and he noticed the contrast in the two cars."
Mason said slowly, "Could you see that the police were tipped off to ask Sam Laxter how it happened he left his house in the green Pontiac and came back in the caretaker's Chevrolet?"
"I could tip them off to ask, but it wouldn't do any good. Laxter is keeping quiet. He's making a lot of mysterious references to the old standby—the married woman with whom he spent an hour after leaving Shuster's office. He won't jeopardize her good name."
Mason laughed heartily. "My God," he said, "hasn't Shuster worn out that alibi yet? Every one of his clients has used it for the past ten years."
"It sometimes gets by with a jury," Drake pointed out. "But, anyway, it gives your man, Keene, a swell break if you play it right."
"I'm going to play it right," Mason promised him grimly. "How about the Clammert automobile, did you find out anything?"
"Some," Drake said. "I find that Watson Clammert purchased a Buick sedan and had a state license issued to him. The number is 3D4416. I haven't been able to get the engine number or the body number, but we'll get them. He took a full coverage policy with the International Automotive Indemnity Exchange."
"Did you get a description of him?" Mason asked.
"No. But I'm working on it."
"Quit working on it, then. Drop Watson Clammert like a hot potato. Call in your men. Tell them not to ask any more questions. You've done a s
well job, Paul. And now you can go get some sleep."
"You mean you don't want anything more?"
"Not another thing. So far as you're concerned, the case is closed. Further inquiries are just going to make trouble."
Drake said slowly, "Well, you know your business, Perry… Here's a tip for you. I got it from headquarters. The police are planning to rush through a preliminary hearing for Douglas Keene and call Sam Laxter as a witness. Then they'll ask him where he was at the time the murder was committed. Laxter will be given his choice of naming the woman or going to jail for contempt."
"Under the circumstances, he'll probably go to jail for contempt and get a lot of newspaper sympathy," Mason said. "Anything else?"
"Ashton is mixed up in things pretty deep," Drake said. "The detectives are beginning to think he copped off most of Laxter's coin. Does that mean anything special to you?"
"Sure, it does. It's the whole case. The whole business hinges on Ashton," Mason replied.
As Paul Drake asked an excited question, the lawyer pretended not to hear and said, "Well, I'm taking a train, Paul. Goodby."
He hung up the receiver, looked at his wristwatch, crossed to a haberdashery store which made a specialty of supplying the needs of travelers, purchased several handbags, a few articles of clothing, and then returned to the depot. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram addressed to Watson Clammert, care of the Hotel Biltmore, Santa Barbara. The telegram read:
LONG DISTANCE TELEPHONE CONVERSATION WITH YOUR NEW YORK ASSOCIATES ADVISES INDUSTRY THREATENED WITH NEW CODE CONTAINING REGULATION AFFECTING YOUR PROPOSED CONSOLIDATION DISASTROUSLY STOP ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE YOU BE ON GROUND AT EARLIEST POSSIBLE MOMENT STOP PLEASE CHARTER AIRPLANE FROM SANTA BARBARA FLY TO LOS ANGELES AND CATCH FIRST TRANSCONTINENTAL PLANE EAST STOP ADVISABLE KEEP THIS MOVE CONCEALED FROM OPPOSITION THEREFORE HAVE PURCHASED TICKET FOR YOU UNDER ASSUMED NAME AND WILL HOLD HERE AWAITING YOUR ARRIVAL
Mason unhesitatingly signed the partnership name of the leading law firm in the city, a law firm of financial and political prestige, which specialized only in the most remunerative of corporate and probate business.
He paid for the telegram and saw that it was dispatched.
He consulted his wristwatch, stretched, yawned, and then, with a chuckle, proceeded to the telephone booth. He looked up the number of Hamilton Burger's residential telephone, together with the address, then called the telephone company and said, "I want to send a telegram, please."
After a moment, a young woman's voice said, "To whom is your message going?"
"Thelma Pixley, 3824 East Washington Street."
"And what is the message?" the feminine voice asked.
"Greatly impressed by your personality appearance and ability," Mason dictated slowly. "In view of what has recently happened you will probably be out of a job. I would like very much to have you work for me. I am a bachelor and will pay you good wages. I will treat you with every consideration. Please come to my office at your earliest convenience bringing this telegram with you and we can discuss wages."
"By whom is the telegram to be signed?" asked the businesslike feminine voice.
" Hamilton Burger."
"It's to be charged to your telephone, Mr. Burger?"
"Yes."
"What's the number, please?"
"Exposition 96949."
"And the address?"
"3297 West Lakeside."
"Thank you, Mr. Burger," the voice said.
Mason hung up, left the telephone booth, and stood by the main entrance to the depot smoking cigarettes until Della Street swung his car in close to the curb, then Mason nodded to the redcap porter. The porter piled Mason's baggage into the rumble seat, having some difficulty to find room for it.
"Now then," Mason said, "I want to buy a new Buick sedan, but I want to stop at one of the outlying agencies. First we'd better stop by the bank and pick up some money."
Della Street was all crisp business efficiency. There was no reference, by word or look, to the manner in which she had played the part of a bride when she had first driven away from the station.
"Okay Chief," she said.
Mason smiled slightly, but said nothing.
She ran the car through the snarl of traffic, stopped at the bank. Mason, consulting his watch to see that he had time before the bank closed, said, "Park in front of the fire plug, Della; I'll only be gone long enough to cash a check."
He entered the bank, secured three thousand dollars in cash, thrust it into his pocket, returned to the car and said, "We want a Buick agency away from the business district. I have a list of them. Let's see, here's one in Franklin that should be just about what we want."
Mason sat back and smoked. Della Street drove the car with silent skill. "This the place?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Do I come in?"
"No. You stay out here with this car. I'll drive the other one away."
Mason entered the car agency. A suave salesman came toward him smiling. "Interested in the new models?" he asked.
"I wish to buy a new sedan. What's the price, fully equipped?"
The salesman took a notebook from his pocket, mentioned the amount. "Now if you'd like a demonstration," he said, "we can arrange to…"
He broke off in gasping surprise as Mason pulled a wallet from his pocket and started counting out bills.
"I'd prefer to purchase a demonstrator, if you have one in that model," Mason said.
The salesman gasped, then adjusted himself to the situation.
"Ah, yes, I'll fix up the papers at once. What's the name please?"
"Clammert, Clammert, Watson Clammert," Mason said. "I'm in a hurry. I want to get a certificate of ownership, or whatever it is I need."
Fifteen minutes later, Mason, impatient at the delay, drove a spotless demonstrator from the side door of the agency. He gave an almost imperceptible gesture to Della Street and she followed him around the corner. A block away, Mason stopped and transferred the baggage from the convertible coupe to the sedan. "Now," he told her, "we stop at the first storage garage we come to and store the convertible. You drive the Buick. I'll drive the coupe. I'll take the lead. When I turn in to a garage, you stop out in front."
"When does the honeymoon start?" she asked.
"Just as soon as I emerge from the garage," Mason told her, grinning.
"And you want to make a real honeymoon of it?"
He looked at her sharply.
"I mean," she said, with wideeyed innocence, "do you want it to look like a real honeymoon?"
"Of course."
She nodded and chuckled.
Mason drove down the street some halfdozen blocks, then turned into a storage garage. A few minutes later he came out sliding the storage check into his pocket.
"The next move in our honeymoon," he said, "is the Biltmore in Santa Barbara. You are now Mrs. Watson Clammert. I'll give you more detailed instructions on the way up. And, incidentally, this car is supposed to have plenty of speed under the hood. Have you ever been pinched for speeding?"
"Not this year."
"It might, then, be advisable to take a chance."
He settled back against the cushions.
"Yes, dear," Della Street said demurely and slammed her neatly shod foot against the accelerator with such violence that the resulting forward leap of the automobile all but jerked Mason's head off.
Chapter 16
Swiftmoving bellboys deftly removed the baggage from the new Buick. The western sun, slanting into the Pacific Ocean, silhouetted the fronds of the palm trees, etching them blackly brilliant against the gold of the ocean and the deep blue of the sky. The luxurious hotel, with its exotic setting, seemed to radiate the calm tranquillity of the days of the Spaniards.
"An ideal place for a honeymoon," Mason said, escorting Della Street through the door.
Mason approached the desk. The clerk handed him a registration card and a fountain pen.
Mason wrote t
he name, "Watson Clammert," and then heard a startled feminine exclamation from behind him, followed by a titter.
He turned. Della Street, shaking out her coat, had cascaded a shower of rice to the floor. The clerk smiled. Mason looked completely nonplused, then sighed as he caught the roguish twinkle in Della Street 's eyes.
"I'm sorry, dear," she said.
Mason turned to the smiling clerk.
The clerk turned the card to look at the name, then reached into a compartment below the desk. "A telegram for you, Mr. Clammert," he said.
Mason frowned, opened the telegram, and spread it on the counter. Della Street came near, sliding her hand around his neck as she pressed her cheek up against his shoulder.
She gave a startled gasp as she read the telegram. Mason's exclamation was one of annoyance.
"But you're not going, dear!" Della Street protested.
Mason turned away from the counter, leaving the telegram unheeded. "Of course not," he said. "I wouldn't think of going… and yet…"
"Business has always interfered," she said, her voice seemingly perilously near to tears.
The clerk and bellboys watched the tableau.
"At any rate," Mason remarked, somewhat stiffly, to the clerk, "we'll go to our room."
He strode toward the elevator.
"But you didn't tell me what you wanted," the clerk said. "We have…"
"The best in the house," Mason snapped, "and make it snappy."
"Yes, Mr. Clammert," the clerk said, handing the key to one of the bellboys.
They stood waiting for the elevator. Della Street started to cry. "I know you're going," she sobbed into her handkerchief.
Mason stood very erect, frowning. His eyes dropped to his handbag. And old shoe dangled from the handle. "How the devil," he asked, "did…"
Della Street continued to sob into her handkerchief.
The elevator slid to a stop. The door opened. Mason and Della Street entered, followed by the bellboy. Five minutes later they were ensconced in a corner suite which looked over the calm blue waters.
"You little devil," Mason said as the door closed. "What was the idea of all the rice business and the old shoe?"
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