"The radio officers put in a hurried call for an ambulance, but Moxley died on the way to the hospital without regaining consciousness.
"At headquarters, police identified the body as being that of Gregory Carey, alias Gregory Lorton, a notorious confidence man whose activities were well known to the police. His method of operation was to fascinate an attractive but not too beautiful young woman of the working class who had saved some money. Using an assumed name, Moxley would court his victim. His suave manner, pleasing personality, welltailored clothes and glib tongue made women fall easy prey to the wiles of the swindler and usually resulted in money being turned over for 'investment. When it became necessary to do so, the confidence man had no hesitancy about going through a marriage ceremony under one of many aliases. Police state that he may have married large numbers of young women, many of whom never made complaint when Moxley subsequently disappeared.
"That his assailant may well have been a woman is indicated by the statement of Benjamin Crandall, owner of a chain of service stations, who, with his wife, occupies Apartment 269 in the Bellaire Apartments. Between this apartment and the one occupied by the murdered man in the Colemont Apartments to the north there is an air line distance of less than twenty feet. The night was very warm and windows in both apartments were open.
"Some time during the night Crandall and his wife were awakened by the insistent ringing of a telephone bell. They then heard Moxley's voice pleading with some one for 'a little more time.
"Neither Crandall nor his wife can place the exact time of the conversation, although it must have been after midnight, because they did not retire until 11:50, and it was probably before two o'clock in the morning, because Moxley told the party at the other end of the telephone wire that he had an appointment with 'Rhoda' for two o'clock in the morning and that she would undoubtedly bring him more than sufficient funds to take care of his obligations.
"Both Crandall and his wife remember the name of 'Rhoda. Crandall thinks the woman's surname was also mentioned, that it may have been a foreign name; that it ended in 'ayne' or 'ane. The first part of the name was spoken very rapidly and he did not hear it distinctly.
"Following the telephone conversation, Crandall and his wife expressed annoyance at the disturbance and there was some talk of closing the window. Nothing, however, was done and, as Crandall stated to the police: 'I drifted off to sleep, was sort of half dozing when I heard conversations in Moxley's apartment. Then I heard a masculine voice that seemed to be raised in argument. There was a sound that may have been a blow, and then the sound of something falling with a jar.
"During this time, and at the very moment the blow was struck, the doorbell in Moxley's apartment was ringing as though some one was trying to get Moxley to open the street door. I drifted off to sleep once more and was awakened by my wife, who insisted that I should call the police. I went to the window, looked across to Moxley's apartment. I could see that the lights were on and in a wall mirror I could see the feet of a man who was apparently lying on the floor. I went to the telephone and called the police. The time was then approximately twentyfive minutes past two.
"Mrs. Crandall says she did not go back to sleep after she was awakened by the ringing of the telephone bell in Moxley's apartment; that she heard the conversation over the telephone concerning the woman named Rhoda; that thereafter she lay 'just dozing, not fully awake and not asleep, that she heard the sound of low voices coming from Moxley's apartment and then the sound of a woman's voice, apparently that of a rather young woman, speaking rapidly; that she heard Moxley's voice raised in anger, then a sound that she feels certain was that of a blow, the noise of something thudding to the floor and then silence; that immediately preceding the sound of the blow, the doorbell in Moxley's apartment was ringing with steady, insistent rings, as though some one were holding his thumb against the bell, ringing steadily for long intervals, pausing for a moment and then ringing again. She says that the ringing continued for some minutes after the sound of the blow and that she thinks the party who was ringing secured admittance, because she heard whispers coming from the apartment, followed by a noise that may have been the gentle closing of the door and then silence. She lay for fifteen or twenty minutes, trying to go back to sleep, and then, feeling that the police should be notified, awakened her husband and suggested that he make an investigation.
"Police have a very definite clue as to the identity of the slayer. The woman who entered Moxley's apartment and who either inflicted the blow which caused death or who was present when the blows were struck dropped from her gloved hands a leather key container containing the key to a padlock which police feel certain is used to lock the doors of a private garage, as well as keys to two closed cars. From the make of these keys, police have ascertained that one car is a Chevrolet and one is a Plymouth. They are, therefore, checking the automobile registrations to list all persons who own both Chevrolets and Plymouths, as well as taking steps to identify the garage key. Because of the fact that the woman evidently had access to two cars, police are inclined to think she is a married woman whose husband maintains two cars for the use of his family. Photographic reproductions of the keys appear on page 3.
"Because of the absence of fingerprints on the murder weapon, police feel that it was wielded by a woman who wore gloves. They are slightly puzzled by the fact that there are no fingerprints of any sort on either the murder weapon or the knob of the door. Police feel, however, that in this case fingerprints are secondary in importance to the positive identification of the mysterious visitor through the padlock key which was left in the room.
"Moxley's police record shows that his real name is Gregory Carey, that on September 15, 1929, he was sentenced to San Quentin for the term of four years for… (Continued on page 2, column 1)."
Perry Mason was turning to page two when Della Street knocked perfunctorily and slipped quietly into the private office, closing the door carefully behind her. Perry Mason looked up with a frown.
"Her husband's in the office," she said.
"Montaine?" asked Perry Mason. She nodded. Perry Mason half closed his eyes in thought. "Could you get any statement from him about what he wanted, Della?"
"No. He said he'd have to talk with you; that it was a matter of life and death."
"Did he try to find out if his wife had been here yesterday?"
"No."
"How does he seem?"
"Nervous," Della Street said. "He's pale as a ghost. There are dark rings under his eyes. He hasn't shaved this morning, and his collar is wilted at the top, as though he'd been perspiring."
"What kind of a looking chap is he, Della?"
"He's short and smallboned. His clothes are expensive, but he doesn't wear them well. His mouth is weak. I have an idea he may be a year or two younger than she is. He's the sort of man who could be petulant if he wasn't frightened. He hasn't lived enough to be sure of himself or of any one else."
Perry Mason smiled. "Della," he said, "some day I'm going to let you sit beside me when I'm picking a jury. So far you've never failed to call the turn."
"You know about him?" she asked.
"Darn near all about him," the lawyer admitted. "Do you think we can keep him waiting while I finish this newspaper article?"
She shook her head swiftly. "That's why I came in to see you. He's frightfully impatient. I wouldn't be surprised if he left the office if you tried to keep him waiting."
Mason reluctantly folded the paper, thrust it in the drawer of his desk. "Send him in," he said.
Della Street held the door open. "Mr. Mason will see you Mr. Montaine."
A man slightly below medium height entered the office with quick, restless steps, walked to the edge of Perry Mason's desk, and waited for Della Street to close the door before he spoke. Then he spilled words with the rattling speed of a child reciting poetry. "My name is Carl W. Montaine. I'm the son of C. Phillip Montaine, the Chicago multimillionaire. You've probably heard of him."
"You've seen the morning papers?" Montaine asked.
"I've looked at the headlines," Mason said. "I haven't had a chance to read the paper thoroughly. Sit down."
Montaine crossed to the big leather chair, sat on the extreme end of it, leaning forward. A mop of hair hung over his forehead. He brushed it back with an impatient gesture of his palm. "Did you read about the murder?"
Perry Mason wrinkled his brow, as though trying to focus some vague recollection in his memory. "Yes, I noticed it in the headlines. Why?"
Montaine came even closer to the edge of the chair, until he seemed almost ready to slide to the floor. "My wife," he said, "is going to be accused of that murder."
"Did she do it?"
"No." Mason studied the young man in silent appraisal. "She couldn't have done it," Montaine said forcefully. "She isn't capable of it. She's mixed up in it some way, though. She knows who did do it. If she doesn't know, she suspects. I think she knows, and she's shielding him. She's been his tool all along. Unless we can save her, this man will get her in such a position that no one can save her. Right now she's trying to shield him. He's hiding behind her skirts. She'll lie to protect him, and then he will gradually get her in deeper and deeper. You've got to save her."
"The murder," Mason reminded him, "was committed around two o'clock in the morning. Wasn't your wife home then?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"It's a long story. I'd have to begin at the beginning."
Mason's tone was crisply definite. "Begin, then, at the beginning," he commanded. "Sit back in the chair and relax. Tell me the whole thing from the very beginning."
Montaine slid back into the recesses of the leather chair, whipped his hand to his forehead with that quick, nervous gesture of brushing his hair back. His eyes were a reddishbrown. They were fastened on Perry Mason's face, as the eyes of a crippled dog might fasten themselves upon a veterinary.
"Go ahead," Mason said.
"My name is Carl Montaine. I'm the son of C. Phillip Montaine, the Chicago multimillionaire."
"You told me that before," the lawyer said.
"I finished college," Montaine said. "My father wanted me to go into business. I wanted to see something of the world. I traveled for a year. Then I came here. I was very nervous. I had acute appendicitis. It was necessary for me to be operated on immediately. My father was tied up with a very involved financial matter. There were many thousands of dollars involved. He couldn't come here. I went to the Sunnyside Hospital and had the best medical attention that money could buy. My father saw to that. I had a special nurse night and day. The night nurse was named Lorton—Rhoda Lorton." Montaine stopped impressively, as though the words would convey some significance to Perry Mason.
"Go ahead," the lawyer said.
Montaine dug his elbows into the leather arms of the chair, hitched himself farther forward. "I married her," he blurted. His manner was that of a man who has confessed to some crime.
"I see," Mason remarked, as though marrying nurses was the customary procedure of all convalescents.
Montaine hitched forward to the edge of the chair once more and pushed back his hair. "You can imagine how that must have seemed to my father," he said. "I am an only child. The Montaine line must be carried on through me. I had married a nurse."
"What's wrong with marrying a nurse?" the lawyer asked.
"Nothing. You don't understand. I'm trying to explain this from my father's viewpoint."
"Why bother about your father's viewpoint?"
"Because it's important."
"All right, then, go ahead."
"Out of a clear sky, my father gets a telegram announcing that I have married Rhoda Lorton, the nurse who was employed on the case."
"You didn't tell him you intended to marry her?"
"No, I hardly knew, myself. It was one of those impulses."
"Why didn't you become engaged to her and notify him of that?"
"Because he would have objected. He would have made a great deal of trouble. I wanted to marry her more than I had ever wanted anything in the world. I knew that if I gave him any notice of my intentions, I could never carry them out. He would have discontinued my allowance, ordered me to come home, done almost anything."
"Go ahead," Mason said.
"Well, I married her. I wired my father. He was very nice about it. He was still working on the business deal I spoke of and couldn't leave. He wanted us to come to Chicago to visit him. But Rhoda didn't want to go right away. She wanted to wait a little while."
"So you didn't go."
"No, we didn't go."
"Your father didn't like that?"
"I don't think he liked it."
"You wanted to tell me about a murder," Mason prompted.
"Have you a morning paper here in the office?" Mason opened the drawer of his desk, took out the newspaper he had been reading when Della Street had announced Carl Montaine. "Turn to page three, please," Montaine said.
Mason turned to the third page of the newspaper. The photograph of a key, reproduced in its exact size, appeared in the center of the third page. Below the picture appeared the words:
Did the killer drop this key?
Montaine took a leather key container from his pocket, detached a key, handed it to Perry Mason. "Compare them," he said.
Mason held the key over the photograph, then placed the key on the other side of the paper, made a pencil tracing, slowly nodded his head. "How does it happen," he inquired, "that you have this key? I understood the police were holding it."
Montaine shook his head and said, "Not this key. This is my key. The one that's pictured there is my wife's key. We've got duplicate keys to the garage and to the two automobiles. She dropped her keys when she…" His voice trailed into silence.
He opened the leather key container, spread it on the desk and indicated the keys. "The door keys to the Chevrolet coupe and the Plymouth sedan. My wife usually drives the Chevrolet. I drive the sedan. But sometimes we change off, so, to simplify matters, we each have duplicate keys to the doors and then leave ignition keys right in the locks."
"You've talked with your wife before coming here? She knows you're consulting me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I don't know just how to explain it so you'll understand."
"I don't know how I can understand unless you do explain it."
"I'd have to begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story."
"I thought that's what you were doing."
"I was trying to."
"Well, go ahead."
"She tried to drug me."
"Tried to what?"
"Tried to drug me."
"Look here," Mason said, "where is she now?"
"Home."
"Does she know that you know about this?"
Montaine shook his head.
"Well, let's hear the story," Mason said impatiently.
"It starts with when I came home from the hospital. That is, it really starts before that time. I had been very nervous. I started taking what I thought was a sedative. I didn't know it was habitforming. It turned out it was habitforming. My wife told me I must break it off. She got some Ipral to give me. She said that would help me cure myself."
"What's Ipral?"
"It's a hypnotic. That's what they call it."
"What's a hypnotic? Is it habitforming?"
"It isn't habitforming. It cures nervousness and insomnia. You can take two tablets and go to sleep and wake up in the morning without feeling dopey."
"Do you take it all the time?"
"No, of course not. That's the reason I took it, to quiet my nerves when I had one of those fits of nervous sleeplessness."
"You say your wife tried to drug you?"
"Yes. Last night my wife asked me if I would like some hot chocolate before I went to bed. She said she thought it would be good for me. I thought it would be fine. I
was undressing in the bedroom. There was a mirror in the bathroom, and a door opened through to the kitchen. By looking in the bathroom mirror, I could see my wife fixing the chocolate. I noticed her fumbling with her purse. I thought that was strange so I stood still, watching her in the mirror.
"I saw her take out the Ipral bottle and shake tablets into the chocolate. I don't know how many tablets she put in. It must have been more than the usual dose."
"You were watching her in the mirror?"
"Yes."
"Then what happened?"
"Then she brought the chocolate in to me."
"And you told her you'd seen her drugging the drink?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I wanted to find out why she was doing it."
"What did you do?"
"I slipped into the bathroom and poured the drink down the bowl. Then I washed out the cup with water, filled it with cold water and took it into the bedroom with me. We have twin beds. I sat on the edge of my bed and sipped the water as though it had been chocolate."
"She didn't see you were drinking water instead of chocolate?"
"No, I was sitting where she couldn't see into the cup, and I sipped it slowly, as though it had been chocolate."
"Then what did you do?"
"Then I pretended to be very sleepy. I lay perfectly motionless, waiting to see what happened."
"Well, what did happen?"
Montaine lowered his voice impressively. "At one thirtyfive in the morning my wife slipped out of bed and dressed quietly in the dark."
Mason's eyes showed interest. "Then what did she do?"
"She left the house."
"Then what?"
"Then I heard her open the door of the garage and back her car out. Then she stopped the car and closed the garage door."
"What kind of a door?" Mason asked.
"A sliding door."
"A double garage?"
"Yes."
"And," Mason asked, "the only reason she stopped and closed that door was to keep any one from seeing her car was gone?"
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