"But they haven't charged me with murder yet, have they?"
"They're going to," he said. "I'm going to force their hand."
"Must I do it?" she asked.
"You said you were going to have confidence in me," he told her. "I say you must do it."
"I'll be in there," she said, "in just about half an hour."
"Okay," said Mason, and hung up the telephone.
After a moment he jiggled the receiver and said to his secretary: "Get me the office of the District Attorney. I want to talk with Claude Drumm if he's in."
He hung up the telephone and faced the reporter.
"Listen," Nevers told him, "you're going to step on your tonsil there. If you tell the D.A. you're going to surrender the broad, they'll cover your office and pick her up when she comes in. They'd rather have her picked up than have her surrender."
Mason nodded.
"That's why you're going to listen to my talk with the D.A.'s office," he said. "It'll avoid misunderstandings."
The telephone rang, and he picked up the receiver.
"Hello," he said. "Hello, Drumm? This is Mason talking. Yes, Perry Mason. I understand that Rob Gleason has been charged with the murder of Edward Norton."
Drumm's voice came cold and cautious over the telephone.
"He is charged as one of the principals."
"There's another one then?" asked Mason.
"Yes, probably."
"Have charges been filed?"
"Not yet."
"A little birdie," said Mason, "tells me that you want to charge Frances Celane as being the other principal."
"Well?" asked Drumm, his voice still cold and cautious. "What did you call me up for?"
"I called you up to tell you that Frances Celane is on her way to surrender herself into custody at your office."
There was a moment of silence, then Drumm said: "Where is she now?"
"Somewhere between where she is and your office. That is, she's on the road."
Drumm asked cautiously: "Is she going to make any stops in between times?"
"I'm sure I couldn't tell you," said Mason.
"All right," said Drumm. "When she comes in, we'll be glad to see her."
"Will there be bail?" asked Mason.
"We'll have to talk that matter over after she makes a statement to us."
Mason smiled into the telephone.
"Don't misunderstand me, Drumm," he said. "I told you that she was going to surrender into custody. There won't be any statement."
"We want to ask her some questions," said Drumm.
"That's fine," said Mason. "You can ask her all the questions you want. She'll be only too glad to have you do so."
"Will she answer them?" asked Drumm.
"She will not," said Mason. "If there's any talking to be done, I'll do it."
He heard Drumm's exclamation of exasperation, and hung up the receiver.
Nevers looked over at him with bored eyes.
"They'll doublecross you," he said. "They'll figure that she's going to come to the office, and they'll send men to arrest her here. They'll make it appear she was arrested, rather than giving herself up."
"No," Mason said, "they think she's going directly from the sanitarium to the D.A.'s office. And, anyway, you've heard the conversation. That'll eliminate misunderstandings."
Mason opened a desk drawer, took out a flask of rye, and set out a glass. The reporter slid the glass back to him along the desk and tilted the bottle to his lips.
When he lowered the bottle, he grinned at the lawyer. "My first wife hated to wash dishes," he said, "so I got out of the habit of dirtying them. You know, Mason, this may be a hard morning, and I haven't had any sleep for a couple of nights. If I put this bottle in my pocket, it might keep me awake."
Mason reached out and took the bottle.
"If I keep it in the desk," he said, "I'll know that you don't get an overdose."
"Well," Nevers told him, "under those circumstances, there's nothing to keep me from going down and getting the photographer," and he slid down from the arm of the chair and walked through the door which led to the outer office.
He was back in five minutes with a photographer who carried a camera in a canvas case in one hand, and tripod in the other.
The photographer wasted no time in greetings, but scrutinized the office with an eye that soaked in the lighting arrangements.
"What sort of complexion has she got?" he asked.
"Spun silk hair," said Mason. "Dark eyes, high cheeks, and a good figure. You won't have any trouble with her when it comes to posing. She's expert at placing herself where she looks well."
"I want her in that leather chair," said the photographer.
"That's where she'll go," Mason told him.
The photographer raised the shades on the windows, set up the tripod, adjusted and focused the big camera, poured some flashlight powder into a flashgun.
"Why don't you use electric bulbs?" asked Perry Mason, eyeing the photographer with interest. "I understand they do better work, and they don't get a room all filled with smoke."
"Try telling that to the eagleeyed bird that audits the expense account," said the photographer, "and it's your office. I don't care about the smoke."
Nevers grinned at Mason.
"That's the sweet spirit of cooperation that we have over at the STAR," he said.
Mason looked at the ceiling of the room and muttered: "I presume I can move out of here for half an hour just because you fellows want to save the cost of a flashlight globe."
"Give him a shot out of that bottle," said Nevers, "and maybe he won't load the flash quite so heavy."
Mason slid the bottle over to the photographer.
"Listen," Nevers said, almost moodily, "something seems to tell me you've got a trick up your sleeve, Mason."
"I have," Mason told him.
Nevers nodded to the photographer.
"All right, Bill," he said, "better get a photograph of the lawyer at his desk. Drag out some law books. Get that bottle out of the way, and get a couple of shots."
"Don't waste your film," Mason told him. "They won't publish my picture unless it's in connection with a courtroom scene, or walking down the street with Frances Celane, or something like that."
Harry Nevers looked at him moodily, and said, in that bored monotone: "I'm not so certain. It depends on what you've got up your sleeve. You've pulled a couple of fast ones lately, and I'll have these pictures for the morgue in case we need 'em. You can't ever tell what's going to happen."
Perry Mason looked at him shrewdly.
"In other words," he said, "you've heard that there's some talk of arresting me as an accessory after the fact."
Nevers chuckled, a dry, rasping chuckle.
"You've got a good mind, Mason," he said. "But you've got funny ways of trying lawsuits and representing clients. Now that you mention it, it seems to me I did hear something about some stolen money that you'd received on a fee and hadn't surrendered."
Mason's laugh was scornful.
"If I had received any money, what a sweet spot it would put my client in if I walked into the D.A.'s office, and laid the money down on the table and said, virtuously: 'Here it is. "
"Did you receive any one thousand dollar bills from your client?" asked Harry Nevers, in the tone of one who asks a question without expecting an answer.
Perry Mason made a gesture with his hand.
"If I did," he said, "I'd either have the bills on me, or some place in the office. The office has been searched from top to bottom."
"This morning?" asked Nevers.
"Some time last night," Mason told him.
Nevers jerked his head toward the photograph.
"Better take three pictures, Bill," he said. "Get him at the desk, get him standing up, and get a closeup."
Chapter 16
Fran Celane sat in the big, black leather chair, stared at the camera on the tripod, looked at the face of Pe
rry Mason, and smiled, a wan, pathetic smile.
"Hold that smile," said the photographer.
"Wait a minute," said Nevers, "there's going to be a sex angle to this, and I want a little more leg."
Fran Celane continued to smile wanly. She reached down with her left hand and moved her skirt up an inch or two.
"Face the camera," said the photographer.
Harry Nevers said: "Wait a minute. It still ain't right. I want a little more leg."
The smile left her face, her black eyes blazed furiously. She reached down and pulled the skirt far up over the knee with an angry gesture.
"That's too much, Miss Celane," the photographer said.
"All right," she blazed at Nevers, "damn you, you wanted leg! There it is!"
Mason explained patiently.
"You understand, Miss Celane, that these men are friendly to our side of the case. They're going to see that you get some favorable publicity, but, in order to do that, they've got to have a picture that will attract the interest of the public. Now, it's going to help your case a lot if you can get just the right kind of a smile on your face, and at the same time, show just enough of a sex angle to appeal to the masculine eye."
Slowly the glitter faded from her eyes. She adjusted her skirt down over her knee, and once more the wan, pathetic smile came on her face.
"That's oke," said Nevers.
"Hold it," said the photographer, and, "don't blink your eyes."
A puff of white light mushroomed up from the flashgun and a little cloud of smoke twisted and turned as it writhed toward the ceiling.
"All right," said the photographer, "let's try one with a slightly different pose. Handkerchief in the left hand as though you'd been weeping, face mournful. Let the mouth droop a little bit. Not quite so much leg."
Frances Celane flared: "What do you think I am, an actress or a mannequin?"
"That's all right," soothed Perry Mason. "You'll have a lot of this to go through with, Miss Celane. And I want to caution you to keep your temper. If you flare up and show temper, and the newspaper reporters start playing you up as a tigerwoman, it's going to be a bad thing for your case. What I'm trying to do is to get the case brought on for trial, and get a quick acquittal. You've got to cooperate or you may have some unpleasant surprises."
She stared at Perry Mason, sighed, and took the pose they had suggested.
"Chin a little lower and to the left," said the photographer. "Eyes downcast, but not so far that they give the impression of being closed. Get the point of that shoulder a little bit away from the camera, so I can get the sweep of your throat. All right, that's fine. Hold it!"
Once more the shutter clicked, and once more the flashlight gave forth a puff of white smoke.
"Okay," said the photographer. "That's fine for those two."
Perry Mason crossed to the telephone.
"Get me Claude Drumm at the District Attorney's office," he said.
When he had Drumm on the line, he said: "I'm awfully sorry, Drumm, but Miss Celane is very much indisposed. She's had a nervous breakdown and was ordered to a sanitarium by her physician. She left the sanitarium to come in and surrender herself into custody when she knew that the police were looking for her. She's at my office now, and she's suffering from nervousness. I think you'd better arrange to pick her up here."
"I thought you said she had left your office when you telephoned before," said Drumm, with a trace of annoyance in his voice.
"No," said Mason, "you misunderstood me. I said that she had started for your office. I told you I didn't know what stops she intended to make on the way. She was nervous, and stopped in here because she wanted me to go with her."
Drumm said: "All right, the police will be there," and slammed up the telephone.
Mason turned and grinned at Nevers.
"If I'd let them know she was coming here to surrender herself, they'd have had men parked around to grab her before she got here," he said.
"Oh, well," said Nevers. "It's all in the game. I could stand another drink of that whisky if you've got it handy."
"I could stand a drink myself," said Fran Celane.
Mason shook his head at her.
"No, we're going to be in the middle of action pretty quick, and I don't want you to have liquor on your breath, Miss Celane. You've got to remember that every little thing you do, and everything you say, will be snapped up and dished out to the public.
"Now remember that under no circumstances are you to talk about the case or to lose your temper. Those are two things you've got to remember. Talk about anything else, give the reporters plenty of material. Tell them about the romance of your secret marriage with Rob Gleason. Tell them how you admire him and what a wonderful man he is. Tell them all about the childhood you had, the fact that your parents died and that your uncle was the same as a father and a mother to you. Try to get the note of the poor little rich girl who has neither father nor mother, but is rolling in coin.
"Give them all the material that they want to write sob sister articles and character sketches, and that stuff. But the minute they start talking about the case, or what happened on that night, simply dry up like a clam. Tell them that you're awfully sorry, that you'd like to talk about it, and you don't see any reason why you couldn't, but that your lawyer has given you specific instructions that he's to do all the talking. Tell them you think it's silly, and that you can't understand why your lawyer feels that way, because you've got nothing to conceal, and you'd like to come right out and tell the whole circumstances as you remember them, but you've promised your lawyer, and you're not going to break your promise to anybody.
"They'll try all sorts of tricks on you, and probably tell you Rob Gleason has made a full confession, or that he has told the officers he has reason to believe that you committed the murder, or that you made certain incriminating statements to him, or they'll tell you that he has come to the conclusion that you are guilty and has made a confession in order to take the jolt so that you'll be spared. They'll try all sorts of stuff. Simply look at them with a dumb expression on your face, and say nothing. And for God's sake, don't lose your temper. They'll probably do things that will make you want to kill them, but if you lose your temper and fly into one of your rages, they'll spread it all over the front pages of the newspaper, that you've got an ungovernable temper, and are one of these tiger women."
"I understand," she said.
There was the sound of a siren drifting up through the windows of the office.
Frances Celane shuddered.
"Well," said Nevers to the photographer, "get your camera all loaded up, boy, because some of these cops will want to get their picture in the paper, taking the suspect into custody. Probably Carl Seaward will show up from the Homicide Squad. He's one of those birds that likes to stick his stomach in front of a camera and put his hand on the shoulder of the prisoner, with a photograph for the front page labeled: 'Carl Seaward, intrepid investigator of the Homicide Squad, taking the suspect into custody, marking the termination of a case which has baffled the entire police force for the past fortyeight hours.
"Maybe I'd better get in this picture too. I wonder if my hair is on straight. I can pose as the STAR reporter who assisted the police in locating the suspect."
And Nevers struck a pose in front of the camera, grinning.
Frances Celane surveyed him in scornful appraisal.
"Show a little leg," she said.
Chapter 17
Paul Drake perched on the edge of Perry Mason's desk and shook tobacco from a cloth sack into a brown paper which he held expertly between cigarettestained fingers.
"Well," he said, "we've got our contact with Mrs. Mayfield. But it isn't getting us anything. We had one devil of a time. The police had her in custody as a material witness for a while."
"Have you worked the rough shadow business on her yet?" inquired Mason.
"Not yet. We're building up to it. We've got a woman operative who's posing as a wo
man who's been abroad as a governess, and is now out of work. We've checked back on Mrs. Mayfield and found all about her early associates. We managed to run one of them down and got all the dope from her about the names of the people she knew, and all that sort of stuff."
"This woman is getting across all right?" asked Mason.
"I'll say she's getting across. She's got Mrs. Mayfield confiding in her, all of her troubles with her husband, and all that sort of stuff."
"But she hasn't said anything about the murder?" asked Mason.
"Not a peep so far. That is, of course, she mentions that she was taken to the District Attorney's office and held for awhile as a material witness until they got a signed statement out of her, and a lot of that stuff. But she isn't going into details. All that she's telling is simply a rehash of what she's told the newspapers."
"How about Don Graves?" inquired the attorney. "How are you getting along with him?"
Paul Drake put the finishing touches on the cigarette.
"We're making some real progress there," he said, "We've got a young lady operative who has contacted him, and Graves is falling for her like a ton of brick. He's telling her everything he knows."
"About the case?" asked Mason.
"About the case, about everything. He's turning himself inside out."
"This woman must be good," said Mason.
"I'll say she's good," explained Drake enthusiastically. "She'd knock your eye out. She's got one of those confiding techniques that snuggles up and looks at you with big eyes, and seems to listen all over. You just naturally ache to tell her things. My God, every time I go out with that broad, I sit down and start telling her all of my troubles; about the girl that jilted me in my childhood, so that I never got married, and all that stuff.
"You've seen a guy when he's about ninetenths drunk, going around and weeping on the necks of total strangers and telling all of his private affairs? Well, that's just the way this jane works. She affects the fellows just about like ninetenths of a drunk. They fall all over her and spill everything."
"That's fine," said Mason. "What have you found out?"
"So far, just stuff you don't want to hear," said the detective. "It don't help your client a damn bit."
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