Perry Mason said, slowly, ominously: "Just to show you what a fool you are, and how you've walked into a trap, the man that you're going to get to represent you is one that was suggested to you by Blackman."
"What if he is?" Crinston demanded.
Mason's smile was frosty.
"Nothing," he said. "Go right ahead. Walk into the trap just as deeply as you want to."
Crinston's eyes softened somewhat.
"Look here, Mason," he said, "I've got nothing against you personally, but this is a business matter. I think you're bungling things, and I think you're too damned ethical. I don't want you to misunderstand me. Frances Celane means a lot to me. I'm just like an uncle to her. She's a kid that I've taken a lot of interest in, and I'm going to see that she gets a square deal. I think that this case requires someone who can deal with Blackman. He says he wouldn't deal with you anymore if you were the last man left on earth."
Perry Mason laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh.
Crinston went on doggedly. "No matter what happens, I'm for Frances Celane. I don't know what the evidence may disclose before it gets done, but I'm going to stick by the kid no matter what happens. Get that, and get it straight. I'm a business man; and she doesn't know a thing about business. I'm going to see that she gets a square deal, beginning immediately."
He turned and walked with ponderous dignity toward the door.
Perry Mason watched him with thoughtful concentration.
"What a sucker you are," as Crinston jerked the door open.
Crinston whirled on him. "I hate that word!" he said. "I don't let anybody call me a sucker."
"You'll hate it a lot worse before you're done," said Mason, and, turning on his heel, walked back to his desk.
Crinston hesitated a moment, then turned and walked back into the room.
"All right, wise guy," he said, "now I'm going to tell you something.
"You've bungled this case from the time you started in on it. I know that I can't fire you as Miss Celane's lawyer. That's something that's entirely up to her. I'm going to advise her to let you go. In the event she doesn't, however, I'm going to give you one tip, and that's watch Purkett, the butler."
"Now," said Perry Mason, "you interest me. Go ahead and tell me what you're driving at."
"Oh," said Crinston sarcastically, "you do want to take a little advice, eh?"
"I want you to tell me why you made that remark about Purkett," said Perry Mason, his eyes cold.
Crinston's eyes surveyed the lawyer in thoughtful appraisal.
"If I told you," he asked, "would you have sense enough to use the information?"
Perry Mason said nothing, but held his head slightly on one side, after the manner of a person anxious to hear that which is about to be said.
"The evidence in this case," said Crinston, "pointed unmistakably to Devoe. A good lawyer would have seen that the police never had a chance to consider the possibility that such evidence wasn't conclusive. However, you sat back and did nothing while the police began to doubt that evidence and make other investigations.
"Then, when that investigation was under way, you did nothing to keep them from involving your client. Now, if Devoe is guilty, that's the end of it. If he isn't guilty, someone else is. There's a stronger probability that that someone else is Purkett than anyone else. Yet you're letting him keep entirely in the background."
Crinston stopped speaking and stood in an attitude of glowering belligerency.
"Is that all you have to say?" asked Perry Mason.
"That's all."
Perry Mason smiled.
"Blackman's address," he said, "is in the Mutual Building. I thought I would save you looking it up in the telephone book."
Crinston's face showed a slight flicker of surprise, then set in grim lines.
"Very well," he said, jerked the office door open, and slammed it behind him.
Perry Mason sat for a few minutes, then clamped his hat down firmly on his head. He walked through the outer office, saying to his secretary as he went past, "I don't know just when I'll be back, Della. Close up the office at five o'clock."
Chapter 13
Perry Mason walked into the garage where he stored his automobile and asked for the mechanic.
"How much of a job would it be," he said, "to turn a speedometer back a few miles? That is, suppose you had a speedometer that registered around 15,350 miles, and you wanted to turn it back to 15,304.7 miles. How much of a job would it be?"
"Not much of a job," said the mechanic grinning, "only, if you were going to turn it back that far, you should make a good job of it and turn it back to 3000 miles and sell the car as a demonstrator."
"No," said the lawyer, "I didn't mean to slip one over on the car dealer or on a customer. I was trying to find out about evidence. How long would it take to set the speedometer back?"
"Not so very long," said the mechanic. "It's a simple job."
Perry Mason gave him half a dollar and walked from the garage, his head bowed in thought.
He stepped into a drug store and telephoned the number of Edward Norton's residence.
The voice that answered the telephone, apparently that of the butler, was filled with that type of formality which comes when one has answered a telephone innumerable times in connection with some tragedy which has attracted much public interest.
"I want to talk with Mr. John Mayfield, the gardener," said Mason.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the voice, "but it's rather unusual for calls to come through for Mr. Mayfield. I don't know whether he's supposed to take calls on this telephone or not, sir."
"That's all right," said Mason, without disclosing his identity. "This is in connection with some police business. Get him on the phone, and don't waste time."
There was a moment of hesitant silence at the other end of the line, and then the butler's voice said: "Very good, sir. Just a moment, sir."
After a delay of several minutes a heavy, stolid voice said: "Hello," and Perry Mason spoke rapidly.
"Don't tell anybody who this is," he said, "but this is Mason, the lawyer, who represents Frances Celane. Your wife spoke to me about getting some money for her, and I can't locate her. Do you know where she is?"
"I think," said the man, "she went to the District Attorney's office. They called for her in a car and took her there."
"All right," said Mason. "It's important that I get in touch with you and talk with you about this business matter which your wife took up with me. Now, the question is, can you take one of the cars and come in to meet me?"
"Maybe I could, sir, but I'm not certain. I'd much rather walk up and meet you at the corner of the boulevard if you could drive out here, sir."
"All right," said Mason, "I'll do that. You meet me at the boulevard, and don't tell anybody that you're meeting me there."
Mason returned to the garage, got his car, and made time out to the place where the curving roadway which led to the Norton residence intersected the boulevard.
A man who was stooped of shoulder, heavily framed and bigboned, stepped out from the gathering dusk as Mason parked the car.
"You're Mr. Mason?" he asked.
"Yes," said the lawyer.
"I'm John Mayfield. What was it you wanted?"
Mason got partially out of the car and stood with one foot on the running board, and surveyed the man with keen scrutiny.
He saw a stolid, unemotional face, with sullen eyes and heavy, unsmiling lips.
"Did you know what your wife spoke to me about?" he asked.
"My wife told me she had had a talk with you," said the man, cautiously.
"Did she tell you what she talked about?"
"She told me that maybe we were going to get some money."
"All right," said Mason. "Now, in order to know where I stand on this thing, you've got to tell me about that speedometer."
"About what speedometer?" said the man.
"About the speedometer on that Buick car.
You set it back, didn't you?"
"No, sir," said the gardener.
"Would you say that you set it back if I completed the business arrangements with your wife?" asked Mason.
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind what I mean," said the lawyer. "You simply tell your wife that if business arrangements are going to be completed between us, I would want to know first whether there would be testimony that the speedometer of that Buick automobile had been set back."
"What's that got to do with it?" asked the gardener.
"Just this," said Mason, making little jabbing motions with his forefinger to emphasize his statements. "We know that Edward Norton telephoned in to the police that his Buick had been stolen.
"Now that means that the Buick most certainly wasn't in his garage at the time he telephoned. Somebody had that Buick out. It doesn't make any difference whether Miss Celane was home or not. Somebody had the Buick out. That Buick was missing at the time Norton telephoned. Now, when the police got there, the Buick was in the garage, and the speedometer on the Buick was set back to the same mileage that it showed when it was taken out. So somebody set that speedometer back. Now, the question is, who did it?"
"I didn't, sir," said the gardener.
"How about Devoe, the chauffeur?"
"I don't know about him, sir."
"How about the butler?"
"I don't know about him."
"All right," said Mason. "You don't know very much about anything, but your wife has a pretty good idea about what's going on. I want you to tell her that if we are going to do business she has got to find out who set the speedometer back on that car."
"You mean the person that had it out, sir?"
"No," said Mason, "I don't care a damn about the person who had it out. I'd just as soon the police figured it was Miss Celane who had the car out. What I want to do is to prove that the speedometer was set back, and I want to find out who set it back. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I think I do now. Yes, sir."
"When is your wife coming back?"
"I don't know. Some men from the District Attorney's office came and talked with her. Then they told her they wanted her to go to the office and make a statement."
"All right," said Mason. "Do you think you can give her my message?"
"Yes, sir, I know I can."
"All right. See that you do," Mason told him. "Now there's one other thing that I want to find out about, and that's where you were at the time the murder was committed."
"Me?" said the man. "I was asleep."
"You're certain about that?"
"Of course I'm certain. I woke up with all of the commotion going on."
"Your wife wasn't asleep," said Mason.
"Who says she wasn't?" demanded Mayfield, his sullen eyes showing some trace of emotion.
"I do," said Mason. "Your wife was around the house. She hadn't gone to bed when the murder was committed. You know that."
"Well, what of it?" said Mayfield.
"Just this," Mason remarked, lowering his voice impressively, "there was a woman in the room with the man who struck that blow. Now your wife had intimated that woman was Miss Celane, or may have been Miss Celane. I want you to tell your wife that I now have evidence which leads me to believe that she was the woman who was in the room at the time."
"You mean," said the man, bristling, "that you're accusing my wife of murder?"
"I mean," said Mason, standing his ground and staring at the belligerent gardener, "that I'm telling you I have evidence that indicates your wife was the woman who was in the room at the time the blow was struck. That doesn't mean that she struck the blow. It doesn't mean she knows anything at all about the fact that a blow was going to be struck. But it does mean that she was in the room at the time."
"You want me to tell her that?" asked Mayfield.
"I want you to tell her that," said Mason.
"All right," said Mayfield, "I'll tell her that, but she won't like it."
"I don't care whether she likes it or not," said Mason. "I told you to tell her that."
"All right," said Mayfield. "Is there anything else?"
"No," Mason told him, "except that you want to be sure and tell her about this interview when no one is listening. In other words, I don't want the representatives of the District Attorney's office to know about it."
"Oh, sure," said Mayfield, "I know enough for that."
"All right," said Mason, and got in his car and drove down the boulevard.
He drove in to a cafe, where he dined leisurely and thoughtfully.
By the time he had finished dinner, the newsboys were crying papers on the street, and Perry Mason bought one, took it to his automobile, lounged back against the cushions, turned on the domelight and read the headlines which spread across the top of the page.
New Mystery in Millionaire Murder…
Woman in Room at Time of Crime is Claimed…
Police Tracing Marked Money Money Taken from Body of MillionaireE…
Heiress Secretly Married and Husband Sought as Material Witness…
Beautiful Niece Mysteriously Disappears Following Visit to Prominent Lawyer…
Perry Mason read through each word of the sensational story which followed; a story in which the reporters told as much as they dared in between the lines; a story which stopped short of actual accusation, yet which left the public to infer that the police were far from satisfied with the case against Pete Devoe, the chauffeur, and were considering a sudden change of front which would involve persons of wealth and prominence.
Perry Mason carefully folded the paper, thrust it into the door pocket of the car, and drove, not to his bachelor apartment, but to a downtown hotel where he registered under an assumed name and spent the night.
Chapter 14
Perry Mason walked into his office, said good morning to Della Street, then went into his private office where the morning newspapers were spread on his desk.
Della Street opened the door and followed him into the private office.
"Somebody broke in and searched…"
He whirled on her, placing his finger to his lips. Then, while she ceased talking, started making a round of the office. He moved pictures, peering behind them, swung out the revolving bookcase and inspected the wall space, then crawled under the desk. He straightened, smiled, and said: "Looking for a dictograph. There's just a chance that they'd have one planted."
She nodded.
"Somebody broke into the office last night," she said, "and went through everything. The safe was opened."
"Did they smash it?"
"No, he must have been some clever crook who knew how to work the combination. The safe was opened, all right. I could tell, because the papers were disturbed."
"That's all right," he told her. "What else is new?"
"Nothing," she said, "except three police detectives watching the office, and I have an idea they're waiting for someone to come in."
He smiled wisely and said: "Let them wait. It will teach them patience."
"Did you read the papers?" she asked.
"Not the morning papers," he told her.
"The late editions say that they've identified the club that killed Norton," she told him.
"Yes?"
"Yes. It was a heavy walking stick, and they've found out that it belonged to Rob Gleason, the husband of our client."
"That'll mean," said Perry Mason, "that they'll charge him with first degree murder, and let the charge against Devoe go."
"They're also going to charge the woman," she said, "unless they have already."
"So?" he asked.
"Yes. This secretary, Don Graves, has given some additional information which has changed the entire complexion of the case, according to the STAR. Graves was shielding some one. The police broke him down and he gave additional evidence."
"Well," he said, "that makes it interesting. If anybody comes in, give them a stall."
She nod
ded her head, staring at him apprehensively.
"You're not going to get mixed into this thing, are you?" she asked.
"Why should I get mixed into it?" he inquired.
"You know what I mean," she said. "You do too much for your clients."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You know what I mean. You had Miss Celane have a nervous breakdown, and leave here in an ambulance."
He smiled at her. "Well?" he asked.
"Isn't it a crime," she said, "to conceal someone who is wanted by the police?"
"Was she wanted by the police then?" he inquired.
"No," she said, dubiously, "not then, I guess."
"Furthermore," said Mason, "I am not a physician. I might make an incorrect diagnosis. I thought she was having a nervous breakdown, but I called a physician to verify my impression."
She frowned at him and shook her head.
"I don't like it," she said.
"Don't like what?"
"Don't like the way you mix into these cases. Why can't you sit back and just do your stuff in a court room?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," he told her, smiling. "Maybe it's a disease."
"Don't be silly," she told him. "Other lawyers walk into court and examine the witnesses and then put the case up before a jury. You go out and mix yourself into the cases."
"Other lawyers," he told her, "have clients who get hung."
"Sometimes they deserve it," she pointed out.
"Perhaps. I haven't had one hung so far, and I haven't had one who deserved it."
She stood staring at him for a moment, then smiled, and there was something almost maternal in her smile.
"Are all your clients innocent?" she asked.
"That's what the juries say," he told her. "And after all, they're the ones to judge."
She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.
"You win," she said, and went back into the outer office.
As the catch clicked, Perry Mason sat down at his desk and spread out the newspapers. He read for fifteen minutes without interruption, and then the door opened.
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