Erle Stanley Gardner

The Case of the Demure Defendant

Foreword

In writing forewords to my mystery stories, I have from time to time stressed the importance of legal medicine.

Legal medicine in the field of homicide investigation is daily becoming more and more recognized as a means by which murders can be detected and the culprits apprehended on the one hand, and on the other hand, innocent victims who have become unjustly enmeshed in a chain of circumstantial evidence can be acquitted.

I first met Dr. Daniel J. Condon, Medical Examiner of Maricopa County, Arizona, on a blistering hot day, or perhaps I should say on a blistering hot night. I went to Phoenix, Arizona, to investigate a case and, because I had had some correspondence with Dr. Condon, wrote him that I would like to consult with him. My train arrived sometime around four o’clock in the morning, so I had planned to go to a hotel until eight or nine o’clock when I could decently call Dr. Condon. As I looked around for a taxicab, I noticed a big man, informally dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved shirt, pushing his way toward me with outstretched hand and that unmistakable air of cordiality which is so much a part of Arizona.

When it turned out that this was none other than Dr. Condon, I expressed surprise that he should be there at that hour, particularly in view of the fact that the case on which we were working was one of those Court of Last Resort cases where there was no money in it for anyone.

Dr. Condon waved my protests aside in his breezy casual way, bundled me into his automobile, whisked me off to breakfast, and by daylight, before the hot sun created mirages dancing on the desert, we were reeling off the miles, headed toward the scene of our investigation.

That was my introduction to Dan Condon of Phoenix^ as good a friend, as good a pathologist, and as good an investigator as you’ll find anywhere in the country.

Dan Condon was trained in the tradition of Dr. Alan Moritz and Dr. Richard Ford. I have previously dedicated books to both of these men, and their influence in the field of legal medicine is deep and lasting.

Dr. Condon was educated in his specialized field under the instruction of Richard Ford in the Department of Legal Medicine at Harvard University; and in a recent letter to me Dr. Condon said:

“The coincidences of sudden death constantly amaze me; and I know from your work with your Court of Last Resort that you are well aware of the danger of accepting what seems obvious until it can be reasonably proven. And, incidentally, I think that is the reason for the notable success of legal medicine as propounded and forwarded by the Harvard group of Ford; and Moritz before him. Slipshod or halfway-made examinations were never a part of their work; and they subtly, and often directly brought that home to anyone associated with them.”

Until we have greater faith in legal medicine and a larger number of competent medical examiners, we are never going to know how many guilty persons are permitted literally to “get away with murder,” or how many innocent persons are wrongfully convicted due to an erroneous concept as to the cause of death.

For instance, one of Dr. Condon’s cases involved a death which was listed by the attending physician as a heart attack. A small, vague bruise on the abdomen, however, aroused Dr. Condon’s curiosity. He insisted on an autopsy and found the actual cause of death was peritonitis secondary to a ruptured or perforated bowel.

When this information was relayed to the police, they checked further and found that the victim had been in a fight two days previously, at which time four witnesses had seen him kicked in the abdomen.

On the other hand, when a man was arrested for murder after having struck a woman who had died some three hours later, apparently from the effects of the blow, an autopsy showed that the woman had actually died from a subdural hematoma, which apparently she had had for five to ten days. When this information was communicated to the police, they were able to find witnesses who stated that the woman had been complaining of headaches and blurring vision for a week before her death and had complained of having hurt her head in a fall.

In another of Dr. Condon’s cases, a man made two attempts at suicide. Witnesses testified that he had taken a lethal quantity of Seconal and then, in order to make death doubly certain, had cut his wrist — quite plainly a death by suicide.

Yet, strangely enough, in this case an autopsy showed that the cut on the wrist was superficial, that virtually all of the Seconal was still in the stomach, with none in the blood or organs, and that the man had apparently died a natural death. That this was true was established when an examination of the heart showed that, by an irony of fate, natural death had intervened at a time when the man was unquestionably trying to commit suicide.

Those are typical of cases which are encountered with alarming frequency by a competent medical examiner, and we wonder how many similar cases result in miscarriages of justice when there is no competent medical examiner on the job.

Of course, we can’t reach any mathematical conclusions, but we do have enough data to indicate that the number is alarmingly high.

Dr. Condon is one of a tight little group of highly trained scientific men who are pioneering a new order of investigative efficiency in matters of sudden death. These men deserve every recognition and praise we can bestow upon them.

And so it is with great pleasure that I dedicate this book to my good friend:

DANIEL J. CONDON, M.D.

— Erle Stanley Gardner

Chapter One

The drugged girl lay on the couch, her left arm extended.

The man who stood over her held the microphone of a tape recorder.

“What is your name?” he asked.

The green light of the magic eye on the tape recorder flickered in an oscillating fan as the tones of the man’s voice registered.

His left hand made a slight adjustment of the volume on the tape recorder. His voice, quietly insistent, filled with enough authority to make it positive yet not so mandatory as to arouse antagonism within the girl’s subconscious mind, slowly repeated the question again.

“What is your name?”

The drugged girl stirred. Her eyelids flickered.

There was no impatience in the man’s voice, only that same quiet, authoritative insistence. “What is your name?”

This time the girl’s lips moved. The voice was slurred with drug-induced drowsiness. The sound was unintelligible.

“You’ll have to speak louder,” the voice insisted, beating its way through to her consciousness. “Speak louder. What is your name?”

“Nadine.”

“That’s better. What is your full name?”

“Nadine.”

“Your full name.”

“Nadine Farr.”

“Nadine, do you remember asking me to give you a truth serum test?”

She yawned.

“Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“You promised that you would co-operate?”

“Yes.”

“You are going to co-operate?”

“Yes.”

“Move your right hand, Nadine.”

She moved the right hand.

“That’s fine. Now raise your right hand.”

The right hand moved but did not rise.

“Raise your right hand, Nadine. Nadine, raise your right hand. Raise your right hand.”

The hand was raised slowly with visible effort.

“Raise it higher. Raise it higher, Nadine. Higher.”

The hand was lifted higher.

“That’s fine. Now drop your hand. Tell me the truth, is there anyone in the world whom you hate?”

“Not now.”

“Does someone hate you?”

“Not now.”

“Are you in love?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever hate anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Who is that man?”

“He’s dead.”

“Nadine, I am Dr. Denair. I am your doctor. Do you have full confidence in me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me everything about yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell the whole truth?”

“I guess so.”

“Will you tell the truth?”

“I... yes.”

“There is someone whom you hated?”

“Yes.”

“He is dead?”

“Yes.”

“When did he die?”

“Earlier in the summer.”

“How did he die?”

The drugged girl answered easily and naturally, “I killed him.”

Dr. Denair, who had been framing another question, jerked backward as though the sleepy voice had struck him with the impact of a physical blow. He glanced at the nurse who was standing by the beaker containing distilled water and sodium pentothal. The carefully measured solution was dripping into the girl’s veins at just the right speed to keep her hovering in a narrow corridor bordering complete unconsciousness, a drugged lethargy in which she would be unable to muster sufficient mental energy to tell a lie.

“Nadine, do you know me?”

“I know you.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Nadine, you must tell me the truth.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Whom did you hate?”

“Uncle Mosher.”

“You mean Mosher Higley?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the man who hated you?”

“Uncle Mosher.”

“He’s dead?”

“He’s dead.”

Again the doctor glanced at the expressionless face of the nurse. He hesitated, then said, “Nadine, tell me the truth. How did he die?”

“I killed him.”

“How did you kill him?”

“Poison.”

“Why did you kill him?”

She said, “I had to go away.”

“Go away from what?”

“Disappear.”

“Why?”

“So John wouldn’t love me.”

“John who?”

“John Avington Locke.”

“Who is it that you love?”

“John.”

“John Locke?”

“Yes.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

“Your Uncle Mosher died three months ago?”

“I killed him.”

“How did you kill him?”

“Poison.”

“What kind of poison?”

“Pills.”

“Where did you get the poison?”

“It was there.”

“What did you do with the poison?”

“Threw it in the lake.”

“What lake?”

“Twomby’s Lake.”

“Where in the lake?”

“From the boat landing.”

“Did you drop it or throw it?”

“Threw it.”

“Was it in a package or a bottle?”

“Bottle.”

“Liquid or pills?”

“Pills.”

“Did the bottle float?”

“I put lead shot in the bottle.”

“Where did you get the lead shot?”

“Cut open Uncle Mosher’s shotgun shells.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“What did you do with the empty shotgun shells?”

“Back of the gun cabinet.”

“Have you ever told anyone about this?”

“No.”

“Where did you get the poison?”

The girl’s answer was unintelligible.

“Nadine, where did you get the poison?”

She moved her lips. Her tongue made sounds as though trying to formulate some complicated sentence, then abruptly, as though in realization that the effort was too much, the girl slid off into sleep.

The doctor indicated to the nurse that she was to shut off the medication.

“Nadine.”

There was no response.

“Nadine.” The voice was louder. “Nadine, listen to me. Nadine, move your right hand.”

There was no response.

“Nadine, what is your name?”

The girl was motionless.

Dr. Denair placed his thumb above the left eyelid, raised the lid, looked in the eye, then let it drop back.

He reached over and shut off the tape recorder.

“She’ll have to sleep for a while,” he said. “When she starts to regain consciousness she may realize she has told us more than she intended. She may become excited and irritable. You understand that, Miss Clifton?”

The nurse nodded.

“You understand that this entire conversation is professional, that you are, under no circumstances, to reveal anything that has been said?”

She met his eyes. “Are you going to reveal it?” she asked.

“To whom?” he asked coldly.

“To the authorities.”

“No.”

The nurse was silent.

Dr. Denair pulled the plug from the wall outlet, put the cover on the tape recorder and turned to the nurse. “I’m going to leave it to you, Miss Clifton, to see that she is kept quiet and undisturbed. She needs to be warm. You’ll take her pulse from time to time. I have left detailed instructions as to what action to take in the event of any complications. You know my routine.”

The nurse nodded.

“I will be out for perhaps an hour or an hour and a half, then I will return,” he said. “I don’t think she will regain consciousness for several hours. If she does and wants to talk, do not discuss anything with her. Simply tell her to sleep. You will remember that you are here in your professional capacity as a nurse and will say nothing to anyone about what has taken place.”

He waited for her to meet his eyes.

She raised her eyes reluctantly. “Very well, Doctor.”

Dr. Denair walked out of the examination room which had been carefully constructed so that despite hospital controls the room had none of the white-tiled severity which might alarm a patient. While the room could be flooded with brilliance, at the moment it was lit only by a soft indirect illumination. Air in that room was held at a carefully controlled temperature and the walls were completely soundproof.

Chapter Two

Perry Mason was preparing to leave his office for the afternoon when Della Street, his confidential secretary, said, “Dr. Logbert P. Denair is in the outer office, Chief. He was pounding on the door. I told him it was after five o’clock and—”

“What does he want?” Mason asked.

“He says he has to see you at once. He’s carrying a heavy instrument of some kind. It looks like a tape recorder.”

“I’ll see him,” the lawyer said. “Dr. Denair wouldn’t have dashed up here personally unless it was a matter of major importance.”

“Dashed up?” Della Street asked, raising her eyebrows.

Mason nodded. “Otherwise he’d have telephoned. When Dr. Denair is too excited to telephone it’s very, very urgent. Send him in, Della.”

Della Street started for the outer office but Mason motioned her back. “I’ll go out and escort him in personally, Della. Professional courtesy, you know.”

Mason pushed back his swivel chair, stretched to his full height^ and walked out to the outer office.

“Hello, Bert,” he said to Dr. Denair. “What brings you up here in such a rush?”

Dr. Denair got up from his chair, shook hands with the lawyer, said nervously, “Perry, I want to consult you professionally.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Come on in.”

Mason led the way into the private office.

“You know Della Street, my secretary.”

“Certainly,” Dr. Denair said. “How are you, Miss Street?”

“She’ll stay, if you don’t mind,” Mason said. “I like to have her take notes.”

“It’s quite all right,” Dr. Denair said, “provided that it’s definitely understood that I’m here consulting you in a professional capacity and that everything I say must be held in the strictest confidence. I know that I can trust you, I know that I can trust your secretary. I am in a position where I don’t know what to do. I need advice.”

Mason indicated the walls of the room in a sweeping gesture. “You’re within the four walls of a lawyer’s office, Bert. Anything you say will be treated as confidential.”

“Suppose,” Dr. Denair said, “that you should find there are some technical limitations of the law safe-guarding confidential communications. Suppose that something I might say to you would be within one of the exceptions and—”

Mason said, “The law lays down a definition of what professional communications are confidential, Bert. That’s one branch of the law that I don’t bother to study. As far as I’m concerned anything a client tells me is confidential.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Denair said, his frosty blue eyes twinkling with cold humor. “Now then, I want to know about that law.”

“What law?”

“The law of confidential communications.”

“What about it?”

“I have been treating a young female patient who seemed to be suffering from a guilt complex. She is definitely in a state that I can best describe in common, everyday language as emotional unrest with the possibility of what we might call a psychic deterioration.

“I tried to reach her by ordinary means and failed. I had the feeling that she was withholding something. That frequently happens with young, unmarried women. I suggested that she take a so-called truth serum test. She consented. I administered that test this—”

“Just how effective are they?” Mason asked.

“It depends on what you’re looking for and what you get,” Dr. Denair said. “From an experimental laboratory standpoint they’re effective just about a hundred per cent of the time, as far as specific information in regard to certain acts is concerned. In other words, you can take a bunch of students, have them commit synthetic crimes, and they’ll promptly tell you all about what they have done when you put them under the influence of one of the so-called truth serum drugs — scopolamine, sodium pentothal, sodium amytal — or any of the others, provided, of course, the proper technique is used.

“On the other hand, you take the hardened criminal who has been denying guilt of one crime and another over a period of years, who has been subjected to all sorts of third-degrees and examinations under pressure, and you don’t know what you are getting. Neither does anyone else. Frequently we’ll get protestations of innocence concerning a crime where you have pretty definite assurance that the man is guilty, and it often happens that while he is denying the crime under investigation, which may have been merely a burglary, he will casually let his guard down and talk freely about some murder he has committed and for which he has as yet gone unpunished.

“In dealing with people who are suffering from a sense of guilt, and where you feel there is some significant fact which is being withheld, the truth serum treatment, so-called, is effective. Once you can learn the thing the patient has been afraid to tell you, you can rapidly gain the complete confidence of the patient. This is particularly true in the case of women.

“In this case I was dealing with a young woman, quiet, refined, appealing, and emotionally disturbed. I felt certain that under the influence of the drug she would confess to some indiscretion, perhaps an interrupted pregnancy — instead of which she confessed to what apparently is a murder.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed.

“You say apparently?”

“Apparently.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I don’t know at the moment how to evaluate the results.”

“Can you repeat exactly what she said?” Mason asked. “Do you take notes or—?”

“I can do better than that,” Dr. Denair said. “I take down everything that is said on a tape recorder. You will, of course, have some difficulty understanding some of the words. A patient frequently mumbles and talks with the slurring accents of someone talking during sleep. That’s the beauty of using a tape recorder. We can play back a patient’s words over and over until gradually we can begin to decipher most of what is said. However, this young woman, while she was very definitely within the limits where truth is to be expected, spoke quite clearly.”

“What drug did you use?” Mason asked.

“A combination of drugs. I prepare the patient with premedication. Then I use a combination of drugs and let the patient become completely unconscious. Then as the patient begins to come out of it I use a dilute solution of sodium pentothal, and at the same time use a mental stimulant to bring about a desire to talk. The higher cortical cells are, so to speak, in conflict. There is a physical lethargy and yet a certain desire to talk. It is a nicely balanced condition which exists in an ideal state for perhaps only a few minutes. Sometimes it lasts much longer. It depends upon the individual.”

Dr. Denair took the cover from the tape recorder, plugged the cord into an outlet, and turned the switch.

“I want you to listen carefully and closely,” he said.

Perry Mason and Della Street listened to the recorded conversation.

When the tape had unwound to the point where there was no further sound, Dr. Denair snapped the machine into the rewind position, rewound the tape and shut off the machine. After he had replaced the cover on the tape recorder, he looked up at Mason and said, “Well, what’s the answer?”

“What answer do you want?” Mason asked.

“I want to know my legal rights.”

“Why?”

“So I’ll know what to do.”

“If I tell you that the law requires you to disclose this information to the authorities will you do it?”

Dr. Denair thought for a moment, then said, “No.”

“Why not?”

“I have my own conscience, my own code of ethics. Our laws regarding confidential communications were made before the days of psychiatry. In order to treat patients today a physician must learn the deeply embedded secrets in a patient’s mind. My life is dedicated to the art of healing.”

“All right,” Mason said, “you know what you intend to do. The law doesn’t enter into it. So why did you come here?”

Dr. Denair stroked his jaw. “I’m afraid I came here to pass the buck. I wanted to be able to say I had consulted an attorney.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “if I had told you that under the law you were entitled to respect the confidence of your client and that you didn’t need to pass the information you had received on to the police, you would then have been in a position to defend yourself by stating that you had gone to a lawyer and had followed his advice?”

“Exactly,” Dr. Denair said.

“If, on the other hand,” Mason said, “I should advise you that under the law you had no alternative but to report to the authorities what you had discovered, you would refuse to follow my advice.”

“That’s right.”

“In which event,” Mason told him, “you would place yourself in a thoroughly untenable position. You would not only withhold information from the law but you would have done it under such circumstances that you would have known you were violating the law. In other words, you would have become what the law calls an accessory after the fact.”

“That,” Dr. Denair said, “puts a somewhat different light on it. I acted on impulse in coming here and I can appreciate that there are complications.”

“There are,” Mason said. “Now let me ask you this. What are the chances that this young woman was telling the truth?”

“I think that we can definitely regard her statements to be the truth, particularly considering the manner in which they were made. But she may not be telling the whole truth. Her mind was too wearied with the drug to assume the task of explaining. Therefore she instinctively avoided anything requiring complicated thought processes. She would make the naked statement of fact and then fail to amplify.”

“Or rationalize?” Mason asked.

“Put it that way, if you want to. She was on the very borderline of consciousness. Her guard was down.”

Mason thought that over. “Is there any chance that the so-called crime she mentioned is a figment of the imagination?”

“I hardly think so.”

Mason said, “Listen carefully, Bert. I am asking you if there is any chance that the crime to which she apparently confessed is a figment of the imagination.”

“Oh,” Dr. Denair said, grinning, “I get you now. Yes, there is a chance.”

“How much of a chance?”

“Not much, but some chance.”

“Then,” Mason said, “as a doctor, if you should rush to the police with a story of murder that should subsequently turn out to be merely the result of a drug-induced hallucination, your patient would be in a position to sue you for slander, for defamation of character, for an invasion of privacy and for a betrayal of professional confidence. It would ruin you professionally. It would also have very unfortunate repercussions as far as your patient is concerned. Therefore if, as a doctor, you can tell me that there is some chance that the crime to which she confessed is merely the figment of a drugged mind, I would be forced to advise you that you should proceed cautiously, that your first duty would be to make a factual investigation.”

“Very well,” Dr. Denair said, his voice showing obvious relief, “I now tell you there is some chance, a chance which I think is slight, a chance which may in fact be mathematically infinitesimal, but nevertheless a distinct chance, that this confession was in fact the figment of a drug-stimulated imagination.”

“Then,” Mason said, “I advise you that under the circumstances you should quietly launch an investigation.”

“And,” Dr. Denair said, “since I am inept and inexperienced in such matters I hereby commission you to launch that investigation.”

Mason grinned. “Of course, Bert, we don’t have the facilities that the police would have. We have to go about these things more slowly and more conservatively. Furthermore, we can’t take chances on asking questions that would tip our hands and stir up the very troubles we are trying to avoid.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Denair said. “I leave the matter entirely to your discretion.”

“You have a nurse present at these examinations?” Mason asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Who is the nurse who was present at this one?”

“Elsa Clifton. Do you know her? She’s the tall, slate-eyed brunette that—”

“Yes, I’ve met her.”

“I’m not sure of her. She’s an enigmatic personality.”

“Is there any chance she might tell what took place at this examination?”

“I don’t know.”

“Specifically,” Mason asked, “what medical treatment is indicated for a patient who has confessed to murder?”

“Meaning Nadine Farr?”

Mason nodded.

“Nadine Farr,” Dr. Denair said, “is suffering from a guilt complex. The fact that her crime, if you want to refer to it as such—”

“One customarily refers to murder as a crime,” Mason interposed.

“Remember,” Dr. Denair said, “we don’t know the extenuating circumstances. We don’t know all of the facts. We only know the bare statement that this young lady made. Specifically she feels that she has committed a sin, that she has escaped punishment, that this is wrong. She therefore has a desire to punish herself. She wants to make atonement. With a young woman who is emotionally disturbed and has a sensitive disposition, that feeling can be exceedingly serious. One of the first things she needs is to confess. Subconsciously she realizes that. That is quite probably why she agreed to submit to the truth serum test.

“One of the first things that I am going to do by way of treatment is to give her an opportunity to confess to me after she regains consciousness. Then I am going to bring her in to you, Perry, and she is going to confess to you.”

“To me?”

Dr. Denair nodded.

“Of course,” Mason said, “I don’t need to tell you, Bert, that we’re playing with legal dynamite.”

“I know, but I try to help my patients. That’s the basis of my creed.”

“And I try to help my clients,” Mason said. “That’s the cornerstone of a lawyer’s creed.”

They were silent for a few moments.

“Now then, as your client,” Dr. Denair said at length, “what do you advise me to do?”

“I advise you that we must investigate the facts and that we must proceed cautiously.”

“That’s fine,” Dr. Denair said. “You’ll hear from me again. I’ll bring her to your office at nine-thirty tomorrow.”

“What about this Uncle Mosher whom she mentions?” Mason asked. “Evidently you knew him.”

“I knew of him. He was some sort of a relative. He actually wasn’t her uncle, but he had her visiting with him. She was there in the house during his last illness. Mosher Higley died some three months ago. The attending physician gave the cause of death as coronary thrombosis.”

“There was no post-mortem?”

“No post-mortem. The man was buried.”

“Embalmed?”

“Certainly.”

“Now then,” Mason said, “that raises a very interesting problem. In the event the poison used was cyanide of potassium, the embalming, as you know, would completely destroy evidences of that poison. Unless there could be some independent proof that the man had been poisoned, unless the bottle containing poison could be recovered, or the young woman’s confession could be corroborated in some way, there would be no corpus delicti. There could be no conviction.”

“And if there could be no conviction,” Dr. Denair said, “it would be useless for me to communicate my information to the police?”

“I didn’t say that,” Mason said.

“Well, that’s the interpretation that I place upon what you did say.”

“Don’t do it,” Mason told him. “I am merely pointing out certain rather important facts. You want me to investigate the case. I will investigate it. If it should turn out that in all probability the poison used was cyanide, and it should further turn out that the body was embalmed, then it might well be impossible for the authorities to secure a conviction. If under those circumstances you should go to the district attorney and should tell him that an emotionally disturbed young woman, while under the influence of drugs, had made a confession to a crime of such a nature that it was virtually impossible to secure a conviction, that furthermore there was always the chance the so-called confession might have been the hallucination of a drugged mind, the district attorney would promptly usher you to the door, tell you to forget the whole business and suggest that the matter be given no publicity whatever.”

“Now that,” Dr. Denair said, “would be a most satisfactory solution — but what happens if there was some other poison used?”

Mason said, “The poison used must have been very quick-acting. The attending physician signed the body out as a coronary thrombosis. Those two factors would indicate cyanide.”

Dr. Denair nodded.

“So,” Mason said, “I will proceed with an investigation. In the meantime, in case you should be officially questioned you will state that you uncovered certain information, that you consulted an attorney, that the attorney suggested that an investigation should be made before you took hasty and irrevocable action. My own charges will be purely nominal. It will, however, be necessary for me to hire investigators. I’ll try to keep the expenses down as much as possible. Does Miss Farr have any money?”

“She doesn’t, but I have.”

“Well, I don’t want to run up a bill on you that—”

“Forget it,” Dr. Denair told him. “I’m in the high brackets this year. Whatever amount I have to pay for legal services will be a business deduction. I have my own peace of mind, my own professional reputation at stake. I want you to go to work and spare no effort.”

“I will,” Mason said, “try to keep the charges as low as possible.”

“I said I wanted you to spare no effort.”

“I will,” Mason repeated, “try to keep the charges as low as possible.”

Dr. Denair started to say something.

“Of course,” Mason said, “that will perhaps retard the speed at which the investigation is made, but, after all, as a private citizen, as a doctor consulting me in connection with the case of a penniless patient, we have to—”

Dr. Denair suddenly grinned. “I get you, Perry. Go ahead. Use your own judgment. Handle it as you see fit.”

“That tape recording,” Mason said, “what are you going to do with that?”

Dr. Denair headed for the door, carrying the tape recorder. “As far as I’m concerned only five people in the world will ever hear this tape — you, Della Street, my office nurse, Nadine Fan and myself.”

Mason looked thoughtful. “Five people,” he said, “are a lot o£ people.”

“Can you suggest how the number could be lessened?” Dr. Denair asked.

Mason shook his head. “Not now. I wish your nurse hadn’t been present.”

“So do I, now; but not only do you need a nurse in order to hold the patient at just the right level of narcosis, but you definitely don’t put an emotionally disturbed young woman under the influence of drugs unless you have a nurse in the room.”

Mason nodded.

Dr. Denair said, “I’ll see you at nine-thirty, then.” He waved good-by from the door.

Della Street looked at the lawyer. “Paul Drake?”

Mason nodded. “Give him a ring. Ask him if he can step in here right away.”

Since Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, had his offices on the same floor as those occupied by Mason, it was only a few minutes after Della Street’s call had been completed that the detective tapped his code knock on the door of Mason’s private office.

Della Street let him in.

Despite his height, Paul Drake had so mastered the art of self-effacement that he was always unobtrusive.

He glided into the office, slid into the client’s big, overstuffed chair, and hitched himself around so that one rounded arm of the chair was against the small of his back. His legs were draped casually over the other arm.

“Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

Mason said, “I have a rather peculiar case, Paul. You’re going to have to get information. You must proceed slowly and cautiously. I don’t want anyone to know that an investigation is being made. In this case you’re not working against time. You can go about things in a more leisurely way—”

Drake rubbed his eyes, tugged at his ears.

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.

“I think I’m dreaming,” Drake said. “Usually you call me in, tell me that I have a matter of hours or minutes to produce re-suits, to engage any number of men that I need, to make complicated investigations, and have the results ready by morning. And now you come along with something like this.”

“Exactly,” Mason said, grinning. “You’ve always told me that you could do a much better job if you had time and didn’t have to employ so many operatives.”

“Now wait a minute,” Drake said. “I said we could do a more economically efficient job. When you have a lot of operatives working at high speed there’s a certain duplication of effort and a terrific nerve strain and resulting expense. You—”

“I know,” Mason said. “I want you to work in the most economically efficient manner possible in this case. I want to find out about the background of a man named Mosher Higley. He lived in this city. He died about three months ago. The cause of his death was given as coronary thrombosis. I don’t know whether anyone has filed papers in the estate, the nature or extent of the estate, or anything about it. I want to know all those facts. I want to know the names of his heirs. I want to know who was with him when he died. I want to know when his will was made if he left a will. I’d like to know whether there was any insurance. You’re going to have to talk with the attending physician who signed the death certificate. I’d like to find out specific symptoms. It may be necessary for you to pretend you’re representing an insurance company.”

“Shucks,” Drake said, “we do that kind of stuff all the time. Quite frequently we are representing an insurance company.”

“I thought they had their own investigators,” Mason said.

“They do, but sometimes the investigators call us in.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Launch an investigation. Do it quietly. There’s no great rush. Handle the matter with what you are pleased to describe as economic efficiency.”

“Can do,” Drake said and walked out.

Chapter Three

Promptly at nine-thirty the next morning, Della Street said to Perry Mason, “Dr. Denair is here for his appointment.”

“The girl with him?” Mason asked.

She nodded.

“How does she look, Della?”

Della Street hesitated for a moment, then said, “Good-looking.”

“Anything else?”

“Demure.”

“A negative personality?”

“Definitely not, but... oh, you know, she has good-looking legs but doesn’t show them; nice curves but doesn’t push them out or wiggle; beautiful eyes but she keeps her eyelids lowered; nice hands and they’re crossed on her lap. Her eyes are definitely interesting; they’re eloquent but soft-spoken, if you get what I mean. You probably won’t until you’ve seen her.”

Mason nodded, said, “I’ll go out and do the honors, Della.”

He walked out to the outer office, shook hands with Dr. Denair, said, “How are you this morning, Bert,” and was introduced to Nadine Farr.

The lawyer ushered them into his private office, saw that they were comfortably seated and said, “I suppose you wonder why you’re here, Miss Farr.”

She raised her lashes. For a moment eyes which Della Street had described as eloquent but soft-spoken, looked into Mason’s, then she lowered her eyelashes and said, “Dr. Denair told me I should come. It’s a part of his treatment, I guess.”

Dr. Denair cleared his throat. “It’s this way, Miss Farr, as your doctor I feel that you have something troubling you. As a doctor I can perhaps diagnose the nature of the trouble but I might not be able to cope with whatever the difficulty might be.

“Now Mr. Mason is a lawyer. He’s one of the best lawyers in this part of the country. I’ve ascertained that something is bothering you. If you’ll tell Mr. Mason what it is, perhaps he can help you.”

She looked up at him and shook her head in a perplexed manner. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m losing my appetite. I’m not sleeping well and... well, if Dr. Denair says something is bothering me I assume he must be right, but for the life of me I can’t tell you what it is.”

Mason regarded her in thoughtful appraisal.

“Perhaps,” Dr. Denair said, “I can tell Mr. Mason something that—”

“Not yet,” Mason interrupted sharply.

Dr. Denair looked at him questioningly.

Mason said, “We must have one thing definitely understood. If Miss Farr should tell me anything, I want it to be a privileged communication. She must ask me to be her attorney. She herself must tell me what it is that’s bothering her.”

Nadine Farr laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, there isn’t a thing I can think of — no reason why I should go to an attorney.”

Mason and Dr. Denair exchanged glances.

“Any emotional entanglements?” Mason asked.

“No,” she said, her eyes lowered.

“Are you,” Mason asked, “in love?”

Her breasts moved as she gave a deep sigh. Once more the soft-spoken, eloquent eyes were briefly revealed. “Yes,” she said, and then lowered her eyelids.

“And,” Mason asked, “you have perhaps been through some tragedy in connection with that love?”

Her eyes met his once more, and then shifted to Dr. Denair. She moved restlessly in the chair.

“Why not tell him, Nadine?” Dr. Denair asked.

She said, “I feel like a butterfly impaled on a pin with scientists studying me through a magnifying glass.”

“It’s for your own good,” Dr. Denair said kindly. “We’re trying to help you, Nadine.”

She took a deep breath, raised her eyes to Mason, and suddenly there was a transformation in her face. The demure personality seemed to fade. Her eyes flashed. Her nostrils dilated slightly with emotion. She said, “All right, I’m a butterfly! You people are dissecting me and classifying me, but I’m human! I have human emotions! I’m capable of intense feeling.

“How would you people feel if you were in love, if you loved someone and that someone loved you, and then another person who had a terrible, horrible grip on you told you that you must simply walk out of this man’s life, that you must vanish forever without leaving a trace, without ever communicating with the man you loved?”

“That,” Dr. Denair said, “is better. If you can release your pent-up emotions, Nadine, if you can tell us, and then perhaps if you can cry a little, it will relieve the emotional tension.”

“I’m not the crying kind,” she said. “I’ve taken it on the chin all my life. But you people who are so smug in your established positions, so damn secure, so assured of having all the good things out of life — well, just try putting yourself in my position.”

“Who told you that you’d have to go away, Nadine?”

She started to say something, then shook her head. After a moment she settled back in the chair, once more a demure, quiet young lady, self-effacing.

“Was it Mosher Higley?” Dr. Denair asked.

“Mosher Higley is dead.”

“I know he’s dead, but did he tell you that you had to disappear, that you had to go away and leave the man you loved?”

“One doesn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Was he related to you?”

“Not really.”

“You called him your uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love him?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “No.”

“Did you hate him?”

There was a long silence. Suddenly she looked up at Dr. Denair. “Why do you have to tear me to pieces in this way? I came to you for help. All that I wanted was to get some kind of a sleeping pill or something so I could sleep nights. I wanted something so I wouldn’t be so terribly jittery. You gave me this truth serum test and then told me I had to see a lawyer — why?”

Dr. Denair said kindly, “I’m going to tell you why, my dear. Now this is going to be something of an emotional strain. You’re going to have to steel yourself and, above all, you must remember that we’re trying to help you.”

“Don’t worry about the emotional strain,” she said, laughing bitterly. “I take an emotional strain every morning before breakfast. People have been pushing me around ever since I was no higher than the arm of this chair — and don’t think I have a persecution complex. If you knew the truth, if you knew what had happened, if you knew the things that... oh well, there’s no reason why I should tell you people my troubles.”

“But that’s exactly what we want, Nadine,” Dr. Denair said.

She looked at him, then seemed to retire within herself and close the door.

“Well?” Dr. Denair prompted after she had been silent for a few moments.

“What did you find out when you gave me the truth serum test?” she asked. “What did I talk about?”

“I’m going to tell you,” Dr. Denair said. “I’m going to play a tape recording of what took place. You may have some difficulty understanding just what you said because your voice at times was thick — like a person talking in her sleep.”

“I’d like to hear what I said,” she remarked, her face a mask.

Dr. Denair connected up the tape recording machine, started the motor running.

“Now please,” he said to Nadine Farr, “don’t say anything, don’t interrupt. Listen to all of this.”

“Very well,” she said.

The tape recorder gave the first preliminary sounds of contact, then Dr. Denair’s voice, coming through from the loud-speaker of the tape recorder, filled the room.

“What is your name?”

Mason glanced from the corner of his eye at Nadine. She was sitting perfectly motionless, her hands folded on her lap, lashes lowered, her face calm and without expression.

All four people in the office sat in silence. The spool of tape unwound slowly. The tape-recording machine, reproducing the voices with utmost fidelity, filled the room with sound. It was as though the people in the office were grouped around the couch where Nadine Farr was answering questions under the influence of the drug.

When Nadine Fan’s voice said simply, “I killed him,” three pairs of eyes turned toward the young woman who was seated in the big chair.

Her face didn’t change expression by so much as the flicker of an eyelash.

At length the tape-recorded interview came to a close. Dr. Denair got up and switched off the machine.

“Well?” he asked Nadine.

She met his eyes, started to say something, then stopped.

“Mr. Mason is a lawyer,” Dr. Denair said gently. “He wants to help you. Knowing you as I do, I feel that what you said may have been incorrect or that there very probably were extenuating circumstances.”

Her eyes remained fixed on Dr. Denair. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try to help you, my dear.”

“Are you going to the police?”

Mason answered the question. “Not yet, Miss Farr. Dr. Denair consulted me. He asked me what he should do. I told him that he had no right as a doctor to conceal the commission of a serious crime, yet on the other hand you were his patient and it was his duty to protect you and to protect your confidences.”

“Isn’t that rather a contradictory statement?” she asked.

Mason smiled. “It might be so construed. We felt that we should institute an investigation before we did anything. And we thought that perhaps you could help us with that investigation. You see, Miss Farr, Dr. Denair is my client.”

She looked from one to the other, then abruptly got up out of the chair.

“You wish to say something?” Mason asked.

She shook her head.

“After all, my dear,” Dr. Denair said, “you can’t go around with this inner emotional tension. There are no drugs in the world that will cure you. You might be stupefied into insensibility, but there is only one medicine which will cure you, and that is to relieve yourself of this inner emotional strain.

“While you were under the influence of drugs you gave us a clue as to what it is that’s bothering you. Now perhaps if you’ll tell us the rest of it—”

She walked over to Dr. Denair, picked up his hand, looked pleadingly in his eyes. “Doctor,” she said, “could I have... could I have twenty-four hours to think it over? I—” And suddenly she began to cry.

Dr. Denair, on his feet, glanced meaningly at Mason and nodded. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, patted her reassuringly. “It’s all right, Nadine,” he said, “we’re your friends, and we’re only trying to help you. You’re carrying an emotional burden that no human being whose nervous system is as delicately balanced as yours can possibly hope to carry.”

She pushed herself away from him, grabbed her purse from the chair, opened it, took out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, said, “If you only knew how I hate crybabies. I guess that’s the first time I’ve cried in... well, I don’t know how long.”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Denair said kindly, “that’s one of the troubles. You’ve tried to be too self-sufficient, Nadine. You’ve tried to fight the world.”

“The world has fought me,” she said calmly. “May I go now?”

Dr. Denair said, “I’m going too, Nadine. You may ride with me.”

“I don’t want to ride with you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want any more questions right now.”

She started toward the door, then suddenly came back to give Perry Mason her hand. “I know you think I’m ungrateful,” she said. “I’m not. I think you’re... you’re grand.”

She smiled at Della Street. “And thank you so much for the sympathy in your eyes, Miss Street. I’m glad I met you people. I’m sorry I can’t explain — not right now.”

She turned and with head held high walked out of the office.

Dr. Denair shrugged his shoulders.

Mason said, “In her quiet way, back of that demure personality, she is one hell of a fighter.”

“You can say that again,” Della Street said.

“What’s your opinion now, Bert?” Mason asked Dr. Denair. “Do you think she could commit murder?”

“I wish I knew,” Dr. Denair said. “I’m supposed to know something about psychiatry, but this is one girl who has me stumped.”

Mason indicated the tape recorder. “Well,” he said, “keep that tape recording in a safe place.”

“And in the meantime what’s my legal status?” Dr. Denair asked.

Perry Mason thought that over. “Technically,” he said, “you’re vulnerable. Practically, you’re in the clear as long as you have come to me, are following my advice and we’re investigating the case and... and one other thing.”

“And what’s that other thing?” Dr. Denair asked.

“That no one else finds out about what’s in that tape recording,” Mason said.

Chapter Four

It was the day following Mason’s conversation with Dr. Denair and Nadine Farr that Della Street came hurrying into Mason’s private office.

Mason was in conference with a client at the time, but catching the urgency of Della Street’s half-surreptitious nod, he excused himself to the client and followed Della Street into the law library.

She motioned toward the telephone.

“Dr. Denair is on the line. He says it’s a major emergency, that I must get you at once. I told him I’d call you out of conference.”

Mason nodded, picked up the telephone and said, “Hello.”

“Perry,” Dr. Denair said, his voice crisply incisive and professionally businesslike, “please listen without interruption for a moment. Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“I’m afraid that confounded nurse of mine let the cat out of the bag. Thirty minutes ago, while I was out, officers appeared with a search warrant. They served it on Elsa Clifton. The search warrant specifically described a tape recording made by the patient in question in which she confessed to a murder. They demanded that the tape recording be surrendered.

“It is my personal opinion that they carefully timed their visit to coincide with my absence. I had not been gone over five minutes when the officers arrived. Elsa Clifton naturally was completely flabbergasted. She didn’t know what to do. She gave them everything they wanted.”

“The tape recording?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. They have it.”

“Where’s Nadine Farr?”

“Here with me. Now, Mason, the police are damned nasty about this thing. They told Elsa Clifton that I could be charged as an accessory after the fact and they intend to do something of the sort. I want you to protect my interests.”

“Tell Nadine to keep her mouth shut,” Mason said, “and you keep your mouth shut.”

“I see.”

“Now then,” Mason said, “I want you to get out of circulation for a little while. I want your patient out of circulation.”

“They’re coming for her.”

“Let them come. I have to talk with her before they take her. In the meantime I have something important to do. Does anyone know you’ve consulted me?”

“I don’t think so. There was no intimation that anyone possessed such knowledge.”

“Put that girl in a taxi,” Mason said. “Drive up here. Don’t get out of the taxicab. Della Street, my secretary, will be waiting at the curb. She’ll get in the cab with you and pilot you down to her apartment. Nadine Farr can stay with Della Street for a short time.”

“Couldn’t you go down there with us, Perry?” Dr. Denair asked. “I’d like to talk with you about—”

“You’ll talk with me later,” Mason said. “Wait down there.”

Mason hung up the telephone, turned to Della Street.

“Go into my office,” he said, “tell the client in there I was called out on a matter of major importance.

“Now get this, Della, because we’re going to have to cut things very, very fine. You go down and wait at the curb. Dr. Denair will be along presently in a taxicab. Nadine Farr will be with him. Jump in the cab with them, take them to your apartment^ wait there until you hear from me.”

“How long?”

“Until you hear from me.”

“Okay.”

“No one is to know where you are.”

She nodded. “But what about the office?”

“Let the office run itself. Gertie at the switchboard can take care of things, and Jackson, the law clerk, can handle routine matters. I’m going to be out of circulation until I join you at your apartment.”

Della Street regarded him speculatively. “You’ve evidently given that matter a little thought since yesterday.”

Mason said, “I’ve given it one hell of a lot of thought.”

He picked up his hat and went out.

Mason jumped in his car and eased the machine out into traffic. Carefully observing all speed regulations, doing nothing to make himself conspicuous, he drove out on the freeway, climbed up into the foothills back of Pasadena until he came to Twomby’s Lake.

A few fishermen were out on the lake in boats. Some boys were swimming near the boat landing.

Mason picked up a stone, walked out to the end of the boat landing and tossed the stone with an awkward overhand motion, the way a woman would throw an object. Then he walked back to the shore, sauntered along to where four boys were swimming and called them over to him.

“How would you boys,” he asked, “like to earn five dollars apiece?”

Their eyes glistened.

Mason took folded bills from his pocket, peeled off four five-dollar bills, gave one to each of the boys.

“Now then,” he said, “the one who finds what I want gets another twenty dollars.”

“Gee, mister, what do you want?”

Mason said, “Let’s walk out to the end of the boat landing.”

The lawyer strode out to the end of the landing, the boys jogging alongside to keep pace with his long-legged stride.

At the end of the landing pier Mason made a throwing gesture.

“Someone threw a bottle off here,” he said, “a small bottle. There are some lead shot in the bottle. I want to find that bottle. How deep is it out there — about twenty-five feet from the end of the landing?”

“About ten feet,” one of the boys said.

“What kind of a bottom?”

“Sandy.”

“Think you can find it?”

“Sure we can find it,” one of the boys said, adjusting goggles and putting rubber fins on his feet.

“All right,” Mason told them. “Go to it.”

The lawyer jumped back to avoid the splash as four youthfully enthusiastic bodies hit the water at almost the same time.

One boy came to the surface, threw his head back to get the wet hair out of his eyes, took a deep breath, then upended and shot down again into the depths. Another boy came up, then another, and finally the fourth. Then they all went down for second, third and fourth dives.

It was on the seventh dive that one of the youngsters emerged from the water to give a triumphant shout. In his hand was a small vial.

“You have it?” Mason asked.

“I have it.”

“Bring it in,” Mason told him.

The boy swam in to the pier. Mason grabbed the youngster’s wet, slippery hand to pull him up on the pier. The other boys, realizing that the quest was over, came swimming in somewhat dejectedly.

“What’s your full name?” Mason asked the boy.

“Arthur Z. Felton.”

“How old are you, Arthur?”

“Twelve, going on thirteen.”

“Where’s your home?”

The boy gestured toward the south.

“Do your folks know you’re here?”

“I came up with one of the older boys.”

“Do they have a telephone?”

“Yes.”

“Where are your clothes?”

“In the other boy’s car.”

Mason said, “Get your clothes. Get in the car with me. We’ll telephone your folks that you’re going to be detained for a little while — and oh, by the way, here’s your twenty dollars.”

The boy looked at him suspiciously. “My folks told me I wasn’t to go riding with anyone.”

Mason said, “I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer. This bottle is evidence in a case.”

“You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer?”

Mason nodded.

“Gee, I’ve heard about you.”

“And,” Mason said, “I think we’d better drive by your house and tell your mother where we’re going. I think perhaps that would be better than telephoning.”

“Okay, Mr. Mason. Here’s your bottle.”

“Not my bottle,” Mason said, “your bottle. Hang on to it, Arthur. Be sure that bottle doesn’t leave your possession. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want anyone else to touch it. It’s yours.”

“Why?”

“It’s yours,” Mason said, “that is, you have it in your custody. It’s evidence. Now come on, let’s go get your clothes and get in my car.”

“Gosh,” Arthur Felton protested, “I can’t get in your car. I’m all wet.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” Mason told him. “Just hop in,” and then he added enigmatically, “it may be that you aren’t the only one who’s all wet.”

Chapter Five

Hermann Korbel, the consulting chemist, wore a black skull cap on his high forehead, beneath which bright, twinkling eyes peered out from behind thick-lensed glasses. His full-moon face beaming with cordiality, he extended a hand in warm greeting to Perry Mason.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “It has been a long time since I have done work for you, no?”

“Not so very long,” Mason said. “A couple of years.”

“Too long. And what is it this time?”

Mason said, “Mr. Korbel, this is Arthur Felton. Arthur Felton has something he found. I’d like to have him tell you in his own words where he found it.”

“Yes, yes,” Korbel said, leaning forward. “And what have you, my little friend?”

Arthur Felton was just a little frightened but his voice was firm. Events had been moving fast for him and he was trying his best to take them in his stride.

“I and some other boys were swimming up at Twomby’s Lake,” he said, “and Mr. Mason came along and said he thought somebody had thrown a bottle off the end of the pier and he wanted us to find it.

“He gave us five dollars apiece to swim out and dive and the one who found it was to get twenty dollars.

“I dove down the seventh time, found it and got the twenty dollars.”

“And where’s the bottle?” Mason asked.

“I have it right here.”

“You took it out of the water with you?”

“Yes.”

“And where has it been ever since that time?”

“Right here in my hand.”

“You stopped at your home with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And dried off and changed your clothes, that is, you got out of your swimming trunks and into your clothes?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“During all of that time what did you do with the bottle?”

“I had it right where you told me to keep it.”

“Where?”

“Right in my hand, right here.”

“That’s right. Now I want that bottle fixed so you’ll know it again.”

Mason glanced at Hermann Korbel.

Korbel reached in a drawer, took out a flask of colorless liquid and a small camel’s-hair brush. “Don’t get any of this on you,” he warned.

“Now then, my young friend,” Korbel said, “this flask has acid in it. Be very careful not to get any on your skin. Just dip the brush in here very carefully, bring it out gently, turn it around against the neck of the flask until you’ve got most of the acid out — just like that — let the brush smooth itself to a fine point — now we turn up this glass bottle and you write something on it — on the very bottom of this bottle you mark something, a figure, an initial, something you can remember, right on the bottom of the bottle.”

The boy marked the initials A. F. on the bottom of the bottle.

The acid turned the bottom of the bottle a milky white.

“Now, Korbel,” Mason said to the chemist, “if you’ll etch your own initials on that bottle so that you can always recognize it, I’d like to have you tell me what’s in it.”

“One thing I can tell you that’s in it — lead shot are in it.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “What are the other things?”

“Some kind of white pills.”

“Find out what they are.”

“How soon?”

“Just as fast as you can.”

“And how do I reach you?”

“I’ll be telephoning you every hour until we find out.”

“In a matter of hours one can’t find out.”

“Perhaps if one is lucky?”

“If one is very lucky, yes.”

“Then,” Mason told him, “you’d better be very lucky because we haven’t much time.”

Mason drove Arthur Felton back to his home, detoured around the block, making certain no one was following him, then drove to Della Street’s apartment.

He rang the doorbell.

Della Street flung the door open.

“Any news?” she asked breathlessly.

“Some,” Mason said noncommittally.

Dr. Denair got up and came forward. “Perry, these damn laws of yours — they make me feel like a criminal.”

“Not the laws,” Mason said, “the police.”

Nadine Farr came forward to give Mason her hand. “I’ve made trouble for all of you, haven’t I?”

Mason grinned. “Trouble is my middle name. Della, Dr. Denair and I are going out to your kitchen for a private conference. You sit here with Miss Farr.”

Della regarded him anxiously. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

Mason said, “We’re making progress, Della — and other people may make progress. At the present time we’re one jump ahead.”

He motioned to Dr. Denair, led the way into Della Street’s kitchenette.

Dr. Denair said, “Mason, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time. This girl isn’t one to commit murder. She didn’t—”

“You think there was no poison?” Mason interrupted.

“No,” Dr. Denair said slowly, “I think there was poison, but there was no murder.”

“Explain that more fully,” Mason said.

“I have not yet got all of the facts,” Dr. Denair said. “In dealing with a patient of this sort it is necessary to proceed slowly. One must win her confidence, then probe gently, gently, gently, but steadily, until it all comes out.

“Now when this girl came to my office today she was ready to talk. Unfortunately this other development made for complications. I had to talk with her in the taxicab. That was the devil of a place for a professional conversation. The information I got was necessarily very sketchy.”

“But you got some?” Mason asked.

Dr. Denair nodded.

“Okay,” Mason said, “shoot.”

“Nadine Farr was in love with John Locke. In some way that I haven’t as yet found out, Mosher Higley put his foot down on that match. He insisted that Nadine Farr must disappear, that she must go away, that she must never again communicate with John Locke.”

“He was related to her?”

“She called him her uncle. It was a courtesy title. There was no blood relationship. She was living with him prior to his death, taking care of him, nursing him. He was a sick man.”

“How old?” Mason asked.

“In the sixties.”

“Any romantic entanglements — I mean with Nadine?”

“Definitely not! They hated each other.”

“How long had she been with him?”

“About two years prior to his death.”

“All right, what happened?”

“He had some hold on her. I have not as yet found out what it was. It may be necessary to examine her once more under the influence of narcotics. I should have followed up the lead that she gave me during that first examination. I would have done so if I had been absolutely confident of my nurse, but I didn’t like the expression on her face. She is engaged to be married. Her future husband is a police detective.”

“Oh-oh!” Mason exclaimed.

“Exactly,” Dr. Denair commented dryly. “Now then, Perry, here’s the story. Mosher Higley was cruel, overbearing, obstinate and obdurate. He gave Nadine a deadline. She must disappear and never communicate with John Locke again. The poor girl couldn’t take it and decided to kill herself. She got cyanide tablets.”

“Where did she get them?”

“Strangely enough,” Dr. Denair said, “she got them from, or rather through, John Locke, the young man she loved.”

“How come?”

“Locke is a chemist. He works in a chemical laboratory. One night shortly before Higley’s death she had a date with young Locke. Locke found that he had to work that night. He took her up to the laboratory. He showed her around, as a young man would, and she was interested in where he worked, as a young woman naturally would be under those circumstances.

“At the laboratory, Locke was busy so he warned her about certain bottles, particularly he warned her about a jar of small white tablets. They contained cyanide of potassium. They were, of course, deadly. He told her so she wouldn’t go lifting lids and smelling.

“Locke, of course, had no way of knowing that the girl was desperate. Higley had given her a deadline of forty-eight hours, during which time she had to disappear completely, stepping out of Locke’s life for good.”

Mason said, “Higley must have had terrific power over her. Any idea what it was?”

“Probably she has a past.”

“She seems a nice kid,” Mason said.

“You can’t tell. You should hear some of the stories I have heard from these young girls.”

“Oh, I know,” Mason said, impatiently. “Times change. There are different standards of personal conduct now from those you used to have, but regardless of what she has or hasn’t done she looks sweet, fresh — dammit, she looks like a nice kid.”

Dr. Denair said, “She probably is a nice girl according to your standards and to mine, but one never knows. Perhaps—” He broke off and shrugged his shoulders.

“All right, go ahead,” Mason said. “Give me the background.”

“Mosher Higley was a sick man. He was confined to his room. He had been a very obese man. He was taking off weight rapidly in accordance with the doctor’s orders. He was on a strict diet but he didn’t always adhere to that diet. He cheated when he thought he could get away with it.

“One of the things he craved was hot chocolate. He had sense enough to know that he couldn’t continue drinking hot chocolate while he was trying to take off weight, but he worked out an expedient that seemed to be satisfactory. He used unsweetened chocolate, mixed it with a dried milk powder, and put in several tablets of a chemical sugar substitute. Nadine cooked the stuff for him. She kept this unsweetened chocolate and the sugar substitute concealed in the kitchen underneath certain shelves in an obscure corner.

“Now Nadine Farr was desperate. She was going to commit suicide. John Locke had showed her the jar of poison tablets. She wanted that poison. She waited for the right opportunity when John was busy in another part of the laboratory, dipped into the poison jar and put a whole handful of those tablets into her handkerchief. She knotted the handkerchief and put it in her coat pocket. When she got home she thought at first she would take the tablets immediately, but Higley had given her a forty-eight hour deadline. She decided that she would squeeze every ounce of happiness she could out of life, that she would wait until the last minute, that she would see John Locke as frequently as possible during those forty-eight hours.

“So we have the spectacle of this young woman, very much in love, preparing to kill herself. She needed a bottle for the cyanide tablets. She had no bottle but there was an empty bottle in the kitchen which had contained this sugar substitute.

“So she took this empty bottle, put the cyanide tablets in it, and placed the bottle in her room.”

“Then what?” Mason asked, his voice showing some skepticism.

“Then,” Dr. Denair said, “she saw John Locke every minute of the time she could. Came the morning of the fatal day. Her time was up at seven o’clock that night. Shortly before noon Higley reminded her of the deadline. He also ordered a cup of chocolate. She went down to the kitchen and prepared it for him.

“She brought the chocolate to him. He drank it, suddenly started to choke. He looked up at her and said, ‘You damn little bitch. I should have known it. You’ve poisoned me!’ He tried to shout but made only an inarticulate gurgling sound. He groped for the electric bell which summoned the nurse. The cup, with the remaining chocolate in it, fell from his hand to the floor and was broken. He clawed for the bell, had a spasm, fell back on the bed, then got back to a sitting position, grabbed the bell.

“By the time the nurse got there, which took a few minutes because Nadine was taking over during the noon hour, Higley was unable to speak. Nadine rushed to the phone and called the doctor.

“The doctor came, pronounced Higley dead, and signed a death certificate giving the cause of death as coronary thrombosis. The spilled chocolate was mopped up. The broken cup was thrown out. Higley was buried.

“Nadine Farr took the first opportunity to rush to her room and look for the bottle of cyanide tablets. They were gone. In a panic she hurried down to the kitchen. She found two bottles. The nearly full bottle of sugar substitute was toward the back of the shelf. Another bottle, apparently containing the cyanide tablets she had stolen from the laboratory, had been placed in front of that other bottle. Someone had engineered things very neatly so that she had killed Mosher Higley.”

“And so she took the bottle of cyanide tablets and disposed of it?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. She slipped the bottle of cyanide in her purse. She felt certain that the doctor was going to find that Mosher Higley had been poisoned. She was on the verge of confessing everything but fortunately decided to wait because she was afraid it might make trouble for John Locke if she told about the tablets.

“The doctor gave her a sedative and put her to sleep. When she wakened she found that the doctor and the nurses all believed Higley had died a natural death. It seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to her.

“Higley had a gun room. Before he was taken sick he used to do quite a bit of hunting. There were guns hanging in racks on the walls and shelves containing ammunition. So Nadine went into this room, used a small pair of long-nosed pliers to pull back the wadding on two shotgun shells. She dumped the shot from the shells into the bottle. That afternoon she took the bottle out to Twomby’s Lake and—”

“How did she know about that lake?” Mason asked.

“It’s a place where young couples go to neck. She and John Locke had been out there from time to time. It’s sort of a lover’s lane affair. She threw the bottle out as far as she could throw it.

“But, of course, Nadine Farr was tortured by conscience. Her instinct told her to keep quiet. Her conscience told her to speak.

“So she built up an internal emotional conflict which had unfortunate repercussions. She couldn’t sleep. She became nervous, jittery. She lost her appetite, lost weight, became apprehensive, worried, and ill. John Locke insisted that she consult a physician. She consulted a general practitioner, who referred her to me.

“There you have the story.”

“And what a hell of a story,” Mason said.

“What do you mean by that crack?”

“Look at it the way a jury would,” Mason said. “She has told you that she hated Mosher Higley, that Higley hated her, that she poisoned him and threw the poison in the lake. That was when she was under the influence of drugs in a so-called truth serum test.

“Now it appears that Mosher Higley had the power to wreck her romance. Apparently he possessed information so sinister that she didn’t dare to stand up and fight for her rights. He told her she had to disappear, to give up the man she loved. He gave her a deadline of forty-eight hours. Before that deadline was up Mosher Higley met his death. He was poisoned. He was poisoned by the girl’s hand. The poison that was used was cyanide which she had stolen from the laboratory where her fiancé worked. Higley’s dying words accused the girl of poisoning him. She knew what she had done. She took the remnants of the poison, weighted the bottle with shot, drove out to Twomby’s Lake and threw the bottle away.”

“Well, when you look at it that way it sounds pretty bad,” Dr. Denair admitted. “But, hang it, Mason, I’m inclined to believe the girl.”

“Unfortunately,” Mason told him, “I can’t get you on the jury.”

“You put it that way and it sounds bad,” Dr. Denair admitted.

“It is bad,” Mason said. “We may as well face it. Della keeps some Scotch out here. Let’s have a good double Scotch-on-the-rocks and then go in and take our medicine.”

Dr. Denair said, “I don’t know as we have to take any medicine. We were investigating the case and—”

“I’m afraid,” Mason said, “it’s a little more of a jam than you may think it is, Bert.”

“How come?”

“When I got your telephone call and realized the urgency of the matter I knew that the whole case would stand or fall upon one thing.”

“What was that?” Dr. Denair asked.

“Whether there could be any corroborating evidence. Whether that bottle of poison could be recovered.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Dr. Denair said. “They could use divers and—”

“So,” Mason interrupted, “I dashed out to Twomby’s Lake. I found some boys swimming out there. I had them explore the sandy bottom out from the boat landing. I had four boys making a series of dives out there. The water is about ten feet deep. It’s a sandy bottom. The lake is, of course, placid. It isn’t big enough to have enormous waves, even in a storm. I felt that if these boys couldn’t find any such bottle we would be reasonably safe in assuming the police couldn’t find it — then there wouldn’t have been any case.”

“A splendid idea,” Dr. Denair said. “I hand it to you for quick thinking, Mason. After all, that’s our best bet. We’ll sit tight and—”

“No we won’t,” Mason said. “We found the bottle!”

“The devil!”

“That’s right.”

“And where is it now?”

Mason said, “I’ve rushed it in to Hermann Korbel, the consulting chemist.”

“He’s a good man,” Dr. Denair interpolated.

Mason nodded. “One of the best in the profession. I wanted him to find out what was in the bottle. Now then, in view of the story your patient has told you, there isn’t much we can do. We now know it’s poison.”

“Look here,” Dr. Denair said, “you found that bottle. Couldn’t you simply dispose of it, take it out to the ocean somewhere, toss it—?”

“Not a chance,” Mason said. “It’s a crime to conceal or destroy significant evidence. Moreover, I had to take precautions to see that the bottle could be identified. Remember I had four kids out there diving for a bottle. When the bottle was recovered I had to disclose my name and identity. I had to take the young fellow who discovered it to Hermann Korbel. In order to get him to go with me I had to reassure him by taking him to the home of his parents and identifying myself. He changed out of a wet bathing suit into his clothes. I’ve left a back trail as broad as a boulevard. It was the only thing to do.”

“I guess we need that drink all right,” Dr. Denair said. “Where’s the Scotch?”

Mason said, “She keeps it up here in this cupboard.”

The lawyer opened the cupboard door, found a bottle of Scotch and produced two glasses. He took ice cubes from the refrigerator, poured out two good stiff drinks, said, “Well, lets enjoy life while we can. We’re going to have some explaining to do.”

“Of course,” Dr. Denair said, “I was following the course that you suggested. We were simply trying to verify the statement this young woman made.”

“Exactly,” Mason said, “and now that we have it verified, there’s only one thing for me to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Go to the police, tell them that I uncovered this piece of corroborative evidence, that I placed it in the hands of Hermann Korbel.”

“They’ll give you the devil,” Dr. Denair said.

“Of course they will,” Mason told him.

“They’ll claim that you were intending to suppress the evidence.”

“That’s where I’ll fool them. That’s where my leaving a wide back trail is to my advantage.”

“Well, let’s hope you can get away with it,” Dr. Denair said.

“I don’t give a damn whether I get away with it or not,” Mason said, “as far as the police are concerned. I want to keep my nose clean as far as the grievance committee of the Bar Association is concerned and as far as a jury in a criminal court is concerned.”

“What do I do?” Dr. Denair asked.

“You, Della Street and Nadine Farr wait right here until you hear from me,” Mason said. “I’m going up to police headquarters and beat them to the punch.”

“I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes,” Dr. Denair said.

Mason shrugged. “They pinch a little, Bert. Well, here’s looking at you.”

“Down the hatch,” Dr. Denair said.

Mason said, “We have one chance, and only one chance. It’s about one in a million.”

“What’s that?”

“That Hermann Korbel has found out what’s in the tablets and so I can make a grandstand play by having him telephone the police telling them that I instructed him to report immediately to the police as soon as he had discovered the nature of the tablets and that I’m on my way to police headquarters.”

Mason reached through the swinging door to the kitchen, said, “We’re raiding your Scotch, Della, and I want to use the telephone.”

“The cord is long enough so you can take it out in the kitchenette,” she told him.

“Could I have a drink of that Scotch?” Nadine Farr asked.

Mason shook his head. “Not yet. I want you to keep all of your faculties.”

Della Street handed Mason the telephone. Mason pulled the instrument on its long cord out into the kitchenette, set it on the drainboard of the sink and dialed Hermann Korbel’s number. When he heard the chemist’s voice on the phone, he said, “Perry Mason. Any progress yet?”

Korbel was so excited that for a moment he lapsed into German. “Ja, ja,” he said.

“Hey, what’s the excitement?” Mason asked.

“The police.”

“The police?” Mason echoed, dismay in his voice. “What about the police?”

“They have been here.”

“What did they do?”

“They took the bottle.”

“Oh-oh!” Mason exclaimed.

“All of the bottle, the pills, the shot, the evidence.”

“How did they know anything about it?”

“I think they have gone to the lake. They have learned that you had divers to get a bottle. They found the parents of the boy who had the bottle. They located the boy. They work fast, those police.”

“I’ll say they work fast,” Mason said. “And they took everything away from you?”

“Everything except one small bit of a tablet which already I had crushed. That they don’t know about.”

“Enough for an analysis?” Mason asked.

“Not for the best analysis, but enough to tell perhaps what the substance is.”

“Cyanide?” Mason asked.

“As yet I do not know what it is. If you think it is cyanide, that I can soon find out. But the police are looking for you.”

“Yes, I imagine,” Mason said. “Okay, I’ll call you back.”

Mason hung up the phone, turned to Dr. Denair. “All right, the fat’s in the fire,” he said. “The police went out to Twomby’s Lake. They must have arrived there not too long after I left. They found I had divers looking for the bottle, that we had located it and that I had taken it away. They learned the name of the boy who had found the bottle. They went to his home. His parents told the police about my having been there. Police located the boy, Arthur Felton. He must have told them about Hermann Korbel. Police used the phone and radio cars. They swooped down on Korbel and nailed the evidence.

“Now we’re in a fix. Now that police know that I’m involved and that I’m protecting Nadine Farr, they’ll know at once that the probabilities are that she’s with Della Street. They’ll start looking for Della—”

“You mean they’re coming here?”

“Probably they’re on their way now,” Mason said.

“What do we do?”

Mason said, “We get out. I don’t want Nadine Farr to become a fugitive from justice. On the other hand, I don’t want her questioned until I’ve had a chance to talk with her, and I can’t waste a second now.”

Mason kicked open the swinging door from the kitchenette, said, “We have to leave. Get your things.”

Della Street looked at him apprehensively. “Is it—?”

“It is,” Mason interposed.

“Come,” Della Street said to Nadine Farr. “No, you haven’t time to powder your nose. This is an emergency.”

“What’s happened?” she asked, getting to her feet. “Can’t we wait and—”

“We can’t wait,” Della Street said, pushing her toward the door.

They were out of the apartment within a matter of seconds. Mason glanced apprehensively about as they crossed the lobby.

“Do we all go in one car?” Dr. Denair asked.

Mason shook his head. “We go in separate cars, and we go fast.”

“Where do we go?” Dr. Denair asked.

Mason said, “We want to be certain that there is nothing in what we are doing that indicates flight. Bert, you make a round of the clinics. Be hard to find, but make certain you’re not placed in the position of running away from anything.

“Della, you and Nadine take your car. Drop Dr. Denair at the first place where you encounter a taxicab. Then you and Nadine drive to the High-Tide Motel at the beach. You get two units. Register under your own names.”

“And what about you?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “I understand the police are looking for me. I always believe in co-operating with the police.”

“Are you going to let them find you?”

“With luck I’m going to be at police headquarters before they can release any story to the newspapers.”

“Wouldn’t it be more dignified if they talked with you in your office, Perry?”

“Dignity, hell!” Mason exclaimed. “I’ll be lucky to get out of this without an indictment.”

Chapter Six

At police headquarters Mason walked down the corridor to the door marked “Homicide,” pushed it open and walked in.

“Lieutenant Tragg around?” Mason asked the orderly on duty.

“I’ll see. What name? Hey, it’s you!”

“Sure it is,” Mason said. “Whom did you expect? An impostor?”

“Wait just a second,” the orderly said, and dove through a door.

Within a matter of seconds a plain-clothes officer sauntered through the door, crossed the office, and went out of the exit door, but from the shadow on the frosted glass it was apparent he was waiting in the corridor just outside the door, blocking escape.

A moment later the orderly opened the door and said, “Lieutenant Tragg’s in there. He wants to see you. Go right on in.”

Mason entered Tragg’s office.

Lieutenant Tragg, a tall, good-looking individual who seemed somewhat harassed, indicated a chair. “Sit down, Mason.”

“How’s everything coining, Tragg?” Mason asked.

“So-so. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Mason sat down. Tragg said, “Excuse me for a second,” opened the door and walked out.

It was a good three minutes before Tragg returned. This time he was accompanied by Hamilton Burger, the big, barrel-chested district attorney, who tried to make it appear that his presence was casual.

“Hello, Mason,” he said. “Happened to be in the building. Heard you were here. What the devil’s all this about Nadine Farr and that bottle of poison?”

“That,” Mason told him, “is what I was trying to find out.”

Burger’s face. darkened. “You led with your chin this time, Mason.”

“Did I?”

“You know it.”

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m not going to institute formal proceedings until we’ve had an absolute identification,” Burger said, “but I’m damn soon going to have an identification.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” Mason said.

Abruptly the door opened. An officer gently shoved a woman into the room.

“Come in, Mrs. Felton,” Lieutenant Tragg said. “I’m going to ask you to take a look at Mr. Mason and tell us—”

“That’s the man,” she said.

“Thank you,” Tragg said. “That’s all.”

The officer who had held the door open beckoned to Mrs. Felton. She went out.

A few moments later the door opened again.

Mason grinned, lit a cigarette and said to Lieutenant Tragg, “Having fun?”

Tragg said, “Frankly, Mason, I’m not. I don’t like this. I’m sorry you did what you did.”

The officer ushered Arthur Felton into the room. “Is this the man who gave you the five dollars and then the twenty dollars?”

“That’s right,” Arthur Felton said. He was big-eyed, frightened and seemed on the verge of tears.

“Just tell us what happened,” Hamilton Burger said, saturating his voice with a benevolent, fatherly kindness which was badly overdone.

“Mr. Mason gave us each five dollars and asked us to dive down and try to find a bottle,” Arthur Felton said. “The guy that got it was to get twenty dollars.”

“And who finally found it?”

“I did.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then he said I was to come with him. I told him my folks didn’t want me to go anywhere with strangers, so he told me who he was and drove me home and told my mother he was taking me in to see a chemist and then he’d bring me right back.”

“And the bottle?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“He said I was to hang on to that bottle. I kept it in my hand all the time.”

“Until when?”

“Until we went to this chemist I was telling you about.”

“And what was the chemist’s name? Do you remember?”

“A Mr. Korbel.”

“You’re a bright boy,” Hamilton Burger said. “There isn’t any question in your mind that this is the man?”

“No. Of course he’s the guy.”

Hamilton Burger nodded toward the officer who put his hand on Arthur Felton’s shoulder, turned him around and escorted him from the room.

“Well,” Hamilton Burger said to Lieutenant Tragg, “I guess that does it.”

“Does what?” Mason asked.

Hamilton Burger made no attempt to conceal the dislike in his voice. “Makes you an accessory after the fact,” he said.

“Indeed,” Mason said.

“On a murder charge,” Burger elucidated.

“Well, well, well,” Mason told him, “you interest me. Who was murdered?”

“Mosher Higley, in case you want all of the formal details. You can’t say I didn’t acquaint you with the specific charge against you. Now I’m telling you, Mason, that you’re going to be accused of a crime. You don’t need to make any statement unless you want to. In the event you do make any statement, it will be used against you. Now what do you want to say?”

Mason took a deep drag at his cigarette. “I want to say that you’re all wet. There wasn’t any murder. Mosher Higley died a natural death.”

“He was murdered.”

“How do you know he was murdered?”

“In case you want to know, we have a tape-recorded confession from the woman who murdered him.”

“Very interesting,” Mason said. “I think you’ll have a little trouble using that as evidence, Burger.”

“I suppose you’re going to try that old hooey about this being a privileged communication. I have a little law on that that will surprise you.”

Mason took the cigarette from his mouth, blew out smoke, stretched, yawned, adjusted himself more comfortably on the chair and said, “When can you use a confession, Burger?”

“As soon as I can get the case into court.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “I haven’t looked it up recently, but as I remember it, in order to use a confession it is first necessary to prove a little matter known as the corpus delicti.”

“All right, I’ll prove the corpus delicti,” Hamilton Burger said.

“How?” Mason asked.

“I don’t have to go into that with you.”

“Oh yes, you do,” Mason said. “You can’t accuse me of being an accessory after the fact in a murder case until you can prove there was a murder in the first place. You can’t prove there was a murder in the first place by using the tape-recorded conversation with Nadine Farr. She was under the influence of drugs when she made that statement and—”

“That goes to the weight to be given to evidence, not to its admissibility,” Burger interrupted.

“Don’t be too certain,” Mason told him. “The woman was incompetent at the time. She couldn’t have been called as a witness. If she had been on the witness stand in that drugged condition the court wouldn’t have let her testify. A court isn’t going to let words that are on a recorded tape have greater weight than would be given those same words in a courtroom.”

“We’ll see about that,” Burger announced belligerently.

“And then, of course,” Mason said, “you have to prove that Mosher Higley didn’t die a natural death. The attending physician said he died of coronary thrombosis. Now let’s quit making grandstand plays and get down to brass tacks. Are you going to have a warrant issued for Nadine Farr?”

Hamilton Burger said, “You’ve already made yourself an accessory after the fact. If Nadine Farr is going to be your client you don’t want to weaken your joint case further by having her a fugitive from justice. I’m demanding that you produce her at this time.”

“Got a warrant for her?” Mason asked.

Hamilton Burger started to say something, then checked himself.

“Got a warrant?” Mason repeated.

“No.”

“Going to get one?”

“I’ll handle this case the way I damn please and without discussing my plans with you, Mason. I told you to produce Nadine Farr.”

“Get a warrant for her arrest,” Mason said, “and I’ll see that she is surrendered.”

“I want to question her,” Burger said.

“That’s fine,” Mason told him. “If you want to question her make an appointment at my office. I’ll have her there.”

“I want to question her in private. I want the answers from her, not from you.”

“Then,” Mason said, “as I remember my law, Burger, I think you’ll have to swear out a warrant charging her with murder, have her arrested and booked — and once that is done I will advise her to make no statement except in the presence of counsel.”

Mason got up, stretched, yawned, ground out the cigarette in the ash tray. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be seeing you.”

“You’re seeing me right now,” Burger shouted.

“You mean I can’t leave?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“Why not?”

“You’re going to be charged with a crime.”

“Accessory after the fact?” Mason asked. “You’ve said that several times. Better get a warrant if you want to hold me on that, Burger, and you’ll have some trouble with that charge.”

“There are other charges.”

“What?”

“Tampering with evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“The bottle of poison.”

“And how did I tamper with it?” Mason asked.

“You had no right to touch any evidence. The minute you went out there and recovered evidence in that murder case—”

“Bless your soul,” Mason said, “I didn’t recover any evidence. I didn’t tamper with any evidence. I was assisting the police. Arthur Felton will be the first to tell you that I didn’t even touch the bottle. I made him hold it in his hand all the time. I drove Felton to a consulting chemist who is a man of unquestioned integrity and has a fine professional reputation. I told him to find out what was in the bottle. I took every step to safeguard that bottle so it could be used as evidence, and then I came directly to police headquarters to tell you where you could go to get the evidence.”

“You did what?” Burger asked, astounded.

“Came here to tell you where you could go to find the evidence,” Mason said. “What the devil did you think I came up here for?”

Tragg and Hamilton Burger exchanged glances.

“You knew that we’d been to Korbel’s place and already had the evidence,” Lieutenant Tragg charged.

Mason grinned. “That doesn’t affect the situation. I came here for the express purpose of telling you where you could get the evidence and what steps I had taken to preserve the evidence.”

“If you were so damned considerate of the evidence,” Burger said, “it was your duty to turn that bottle over to the police just as soon as you received it.”

Mason shook his head. “In that case,” he said, “I could well have been convicted of slander and defamation of character. I couldn’t have gone to you and said, ‘Gentlemen, this is a bottle of poison that was hurled off the end of the pier.’ How the devil do I know it’s poison? How do I know when it was hurled off the end of the pier, or by whom? No, gentlemen, I took steps to protect you as well as myself. I wanted to be certain that the bottle contained poison before I reported to you.”

Mason indicated Tragg’s telephone.

“Can I get Hermann Korbel on the line, Tragg?” Mason asked.

Lieutenant Tragg hesitated for a moment, glanced at Hamilton Burger’s angry face. There was a faint flicker of amusement in the lieutenant’s eyes. “Just ask for outside and dial your number,” he said.

Mason asked for outside, then dialed Korbel’s number.

Mason, talking into the telephone, said, “Hello... Hello, Hermann?... This is Perry Mason. What did you find out?”

Burger said, “He didn’t find out anything. We took the evidence away from him.”

Mason motioned the district attorney to silence. “Yes, Hermann, go on.”

Once more Hermann was excited. “Of course,” he said, “I have no way of knowing, Mason, that the tablets in that bottle were all the same. I took a sample from one tablet.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Mason said.

“And I had that sample that the police didn’t know about.”

“I know. Go on,” Mason said.

“You talked about poison,” Korbel said. “I tested it for cyanide. It was not cyanide. It was not arsenic. I only had a little sample. I used X-ray diffraction. I got a peculiar graph. Then I remembered the bottle had the name of a sugar substitute blown in the side.

“By golly, Mason, what you know? That tablet was just what the bottle said, by damn. That tablet was this chemical sugar substitute. Then I used a spectrograph. By golly, those tests are so delicate that if the other tablets had been different, I would have found some traces from their rubbing around against those shot. Those tablets are just what the bottle said they were.”

Mason held the phone for a moment thinking that over. A slow grin spread over his face.

“You there?” Korbel asked.

“That’s right,” Mason said.

“You heard what I said? It’s the sugar substitute.”

“That’s fine. Thanks,” Mason said. “I may call you later. Take good care of that sample. Check your conclusions. You’ll probably have to testify.”

Mason dropped the receiver back into place and grinned at Hamilton Burger.

“You probably didn’t realize, Burger, that when you had the police swoop down on Korbel and grab the bottle with the tablets Korbel had already made a scraping from one of the tablets in that bottle so he could complete his analysis.

“I told you that I was acting in good faith in the matter and that as soon as I had Korbel’s analysis I intended to advise the police in the event the contents of that bottle turned out to be poison.

“I am now glad to announce that Hermann Korbel has just told me the bottle contained exactly what it was supposed to contain. The trade name was blown in the glass in the side of the bottle. It’s a chemical sugar substitute. If you ever want to reduce I can’t recommend it too highly. And from the color of your face I think you’d better take off about thirty pounds.

“And now, gentlemen, in view of that information, if you want to try and stop me from walking out, go ahead.”

Mason walked over to the door, pushed it open.

A plain-clothes man barred his way.

Behind him Mason heard excited whispers, then Tragg’s voice said to the officer, “Okay, let him go.”

Chapter Seven

Mason unlocked the door of his private office, picked up the telephone and said to the girl at the switchboard, “I’m back, Gertie, and I want you to call Della Street for me at the High-Tide Motel.”

“Yes, Mr. Mason, and you have someone out here who wants to see you, a woman who... well, she says it’s an emergency, something about this Nadine Farr case.”

“Come on in and tell me about her,” Mason said.

“Do you want Della first?”

“No, come in now. You can call Della afterward.”

A moment later Gertie stood in the doorway of the private office, her manner showing she was excited.

Gertie, a girl in her late twenties, inclined to put on weight with every chocolate sundae which she “simply couldn’t resist,” never failed to dramatize each incident which took place during the day. Long experience had taught Perry Mason and Della Street to discount her excitement.

She romanticized life and sex. In her more slender moments she was prone to indulge in tight sweaters while imprisoning herself in the tightest, firmest girdles that she could possibly wear. At such times she was happy. Then when the inevitable desire for sweets got the best of her curves, she would go to the other extreme, subsisting for two or three days on buttermilk and grapefruit juice, looking wan and weak, but fighting her avoirdupois with grim determination, only to surrender again as soon as she had partially achieved her objective.

“Gosh, Mr. Mason,” she said, “this woman seems to know all the answers. She’s born to the velvet. You get that feel about her and she’s been trying to tell me things about Nadine Farr. Are you interested in that case, Mr. Mason?”

“Very much,” Mason said smiling, “only I don’t think there’s going to be a case. What’s this woman’s name, Gertie?”

“Mrs. Jackson Newburn.”

“How old, Gertie?”

“Well, I’d say thirty-one or thirty-two. Della would probably say thirty-five. Della looks at their hands. I look at—”

“What’s her connection with the case?”

“She’s related to Mosher Higley, that is, she was related to him.”

“She told you what she wanted to see me about?”

“Well, she told me just enough to make me realize that it was important that she see you.”

“All right,” Mason said, “tell her I’ve been out, that I’ve just come in and that I’ll see her briefly.”

“And what about Della?”

“Telephone Della first, but don’t let anyone in the outer office hear whom you’re calling.”

Gertie looked at him reproachfully. “I never do, Mr. Mason. I use that device so that no matter how close they’re sitting they can’t hear.”

“That’s fine, Gertie. Call Della. And as soon as I’ve finished talking with her send Mrs. Newburn in.”

Gertie nodded, swirled into a rightabout-face and gently closed the door behind her.

A few moments later Mason’s phone tinkled and Mason, picking up the phone, heard Della Street’s voice at the other end of the line.

“How’s it coming, Chief?” she asked.

“Relax,” Mason said. “I think it’s all over.”

“How come?”

“Well,” Mason said, “the boys were pretty much upset. They went out to Twomby’s Lake to check up on things. They found that someone had beaten them to it. It didn’t take too much detective work to find out who that someone was. Then they located Arthur Felton, the boy who had recovered the bottle, learned from him that Mr. Mason had taken him to Hermann Korbel’s laboratory. So they dashed out there and grabbed the bottle before Korbel had finished his experiments. Then they started looking for me on the ground of tampering with evidence, compounding a felony, being an accessory after the fact and all the rest.”

“Chief,” Della Street said, her voice sharp with apprehension, “what did they—?”

“Relax,” Mason told her, laughing. “Right in the middle of their dramatic attempt to put me on the spot I telephoned Korbel. Korbel had managed to save scrapings from one of the tablets — a rather minute amount but still sufficient for his purpose. He had learned the nature of the pills just a few minutes before I phoned.”

“And what were the pills — cyanide?”

“The pills,” Mason said, “were the sugar substitute they were supposed to be. You can tell Nadine Farr to go about her business. She can get that load off her mind and off her conscience. Drop her wherever she wants to go and then drive back to the office.”

“Well, for pity’s sake!” Della Street said. “You mean that all of those pills were this sugar substitute?”

“That’s right, Della. The tests Korbel used were so sensitive that even if some of the other pills had been cyanide there would have been enough in his sample to show.

“Evidently someone in the house found this partially filled bottle of the sugar substitute, knew where Nadine kept the stuff and simply put this bottle in with the other. Is she there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her, and then see if she has any questions.”

Mason held the phone, could hear the girls talking rapidly in tones of great excitement, then Della Street said, “Nadine wants me to ask you whatever became of the cyanide tablets she had in her room if those other tablets were the sugar substitute.”

Mason, radiating good nature, said, “Tell her I’m a lawyer, not a seer. She’d better go back and search her room again. It doesn’t make much difference where those tablets are. The big point is that the tablets she put in the chocolate were just what they were supposed to be and Mosher Higley died a natural death.

“Tell her she can go home. I haven’t time to talk with her now. Get on in here, Della, and I’ll buy you a dinner.”

Mason hung up the telephone, looked at the door to the outer office, waiting expectantly.

Within a few seconds Gertie, enjoying her role of taking Della Street’s place, escorted Mrs. Newburn into the office.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Newburn,” Mason said, smiling. “Come in and sit down.”

“Can I do anything else?” Gertie asked. “You want any notes taken or any—?”

“No, that’s all right,” Mason said.

“One of the other girls can watch the switchboard—”

Mason shook his head firmly.

Gertie, with disappointment in her eyes, swung back to her duties at the switchboard, and Mrs. Newburn came forward to extend her hand to Perry Mason.

“I know it was presumptuous of me to try to see you without making an appointment,” she said, “but the nature of my business was so confidential and so urgent that I felt you’d make an exception in my case.”

“Quite all right,” Mason said. “You talked things over with the girl at the switchboard and gave her an idea of what your business was — that always helps. It’s these people who are mysterious and refuse even to outline the general nature of their business who upset a day’s work. Now sit down and tell me just what you know about the Farr case.”

“I don’t know much about the Farr case but I know a lot about Nadine Farr.”

“All right, let’s have it,” Mason said, as Mrs. Newburn seated herself in the comfortable chair reserved for clients, and regarded Mason with steady, appraising eyes.

She was well-tailored, well-groomed, and her voice had the well-modulated timbre which one customarily associates with good breeding.

“I think first,” she said, “I should introduce myself. I am a niece of Mosher Higley.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes. My husband is in the oil business.”

“And you’ve been acquainted with Nadine Farr for how long?”

“A little over two years.”

“What is it you wish to tell me about her?”

She said, “Mr. Mason, I don’t want you to have the wool pulled over your eyes. Nadine is very, very adept at putting on an act, an act of sweet, cherubic innocence. She looks at you with wide-eyed sincerity, and all the time that little minx is wondering just how far she can twist you around her finger, and, believe me, she certainly means to twist you right around her finger. Everything that young woman does, every impulse she has is distinctly, decidedly, cold-bloodedly selfish.

“Now I understand that she’s been trying for one reason or another to make it appear that there was something sinister about the death of Uncle Mosher. There wasn’t. Uncle Mosher died of purely natural causes. He had a coronary thrombosis. The attending physician knows it, and that’s all there was to it.”

“Perhaps,” Mason said, “you misunderstood what Nadine was trying to do.”

“That’s entirely possible, Mr. Mason. Nadine hasn’t confided in me. She’s mysterious, secretive and furtive. She’ll twist every man in the world right around her fingers. She knows she can’t do it with alert women so she doesn’t try so hard with them. Occasionally you can catch her with her real character showing, if you’re a woman. With a man it’s virtually impossible. No matter what you do, she always resorts to that air of sweet innocence. She’ll look up helplessly, put herself entirely in your hands and somehow — and heaven knows how she does it with her background — appear shy and naive.

“I’m being catty, Mr. Mason. I’m not even going to try not to be. I’ll become more catty if I have to. I’ll claw and bite and I’ll fight.”

“What are you going to fight over?” Mason asked. “Are you by any chance feeling that your husband is straying off the reservation?”

Mrs. Newburn’s lips tightened. “Jackson,” she said, “like every other man I know, has completely fallen for her line. He thinks she’s just a sweet, innocent little girl who probably knows the facts of life but hasn’t applied them. He thinks that I’m persecuting her, that I’m jealous, that—”

“Is there anything to be jealous about?” Mason interrupted.

“I wish I knew,” she said. “Jackson is a male. He’s human. He has the predatory impulses which are part of the normal male temperament.

“Nadine doesn’t rely on the obvious come-hither approach. She uses the helpless, feminine technique, but, believe me, if she saw that anything, and I mean literally anything, was necessary to gain her ends she would only hesitate long enough to make it appear that her sweet innocence was being overcome by forces over which she had absolutely no control.

“And while I love Jackson, and respect him, if you’ll show me any normal male who wouldn’t fall for that line of approach, I’ll show you a man that I wouldn’t care to be married to. So there you are.

“Perhaps I am jealous. How do I know? However, that’s far afield from what I came to tell you.”

“All right,” Mason said. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Nadine called Mosher Higley her Uncle Mosher. Actually he wasn’t related to her. Uncle Mosher knew something about her that enabled him to appraise her true character. In any event, Mosher Higley was one man she couldn’t twist around her finger. He was the one man that I think she really and truly feared.”

“Why did she fear him?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Mason, that I’d give a pretty penny to find out. Uncle Mosher had something on her.”

“In what way?”

“Well — she was afraid of him, but she respected him. She never tried to wheedle him. She didn’t use this helpless innocence on him. She didn’t use anything. She just did what he told her to.”

Mason said, “You came here for some specific purpose. Why not tell me what it is?”

“I’m trying to tell you.”

Mason smiled and shook his head. “How did you happen to come here?”

“Because I wanted you to understand certain things.”

“But how did you happen to come here, to this office? How did you know I was connected with the case?”

“I was told.”

“By whom?”

“Cap’n Hugo.”

“Who’s he?”

“He was my uncle’s cook, housekeeper, chauffeur, handy man, chore boy and general factotum.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“He said Nadine had gone to a doctor who had given her a truth serum test. He said the doctor had taken down everything she had said on the tape and that she had said she had murdered Uncle Mosher.”

“And how did this Captain Hugo know that?”

“John had told him.”

“And who is John?”

“Why, John Avington Locke, the young man Nadine is trying to throw her hooks into.”

Mason smiled. “Her intentions, then, are honorable.”

“They’re permanent,” Mrs. Newburn said.

“And how did John Avington Locke know of this?”

“Nadine told him. The doctor, you know, played this tape recording back to her.”

“I see. So she told John, John told Hugo, Hugo told you.”

“Yes.”

“That was about the tape recording. But how did you know about me?”

“I learned that through the police.”

“Now,” Mason said, “we’re getting somewhere. How did it happen that you were discussing the matter with the police?”

“The police came to our house.”

“To interview you and your husband?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“We answered questions.”

“And what were the questions?”

“They wanted to know all about family affairs, about Nadine Farr, and about Uncle Mosher’s death, and then after they had asked questions they told us that Nadine had gone to you and that you had gone to Twomby’s Lake and recovered the poison.”

“And then what did you tell them?”

“Then I was too completely flabbergasted to tell them anything.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I jumped in my car and came here the minute the police left.”

“Why?”

“Because, Mr. Mason, you’re being victimized. You’re... well, I gathered from the police that you were going to try to protect Nadine. She isn’t worth it. This whole thing is just another one of her schemes.”

“You think she murdered Mosher Higley?”

Mrs. Newburn laughed. “That’s what I’m trying to clear up for you. No one murdered him. Uncle Mosher died a natural death. I’m trying to let you see what’s happening, Mr. Mason.”

“Then why would Nadine have tried to create the impression that she killed your uncle — if we are to take the police version and assume that she did try to create that impression?”

“She did that very deliberately,” Mrs. Newburn said, “and she did it for a definite purpose.”

“What was the purpose?” Mason asked.

“Uncle Mosher had property valued at about seventy-five thousand dollars. He left a will which showed that he didn’t have the faintest idea of the real value of his property. Or perhaps it was his way of taking a parting slap at Nadine.”

“Tell me about the will,” Mason said.

“It provided that I was to receive the big two-story house where he lived, that I was to have the car, the furniture and all of that, but that Nadine Farr could live in the house until she had finished her schooling.

“Then he gave some cash bequests to my husband, to me, and to a college. He directed his executor to keep his factotum, Cap’n Hugo, on at half-salary for a reasonable period not to exceed four months. He provided that Nadine’s expenses were to be paid until she finished the current school year, and then he left all the rest, residue and remainder of his property to Nadine.

“The joke of it is that he left about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of bequests and the most that can be secured from selling his property at the moment would be about seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“So he really left Nadine with something less than nothing,” Mason said.

“That’s exactly it. I think it goes back to some sort of an arrangement he had somewhere with his partner in business. At one time Mosher Higley was quite wealthy and I think there had been a definite arrangement that he was to leave a will by which he had to make certain provisions for Nadine.”

“He disliked Nadine?”

“I won’t say that. He understood her.”

“All right, go ahead. You still haven’t told me about Nadine’s motive.”

“Well,” she said, “Nadine is very, very clever and very, very scheming. She understands the business implications of the will. My uncle owned a large acreage of Wyoming land which has at the present time a low market value.

“However, Standard Oil is going to put down a really deep test well on some adjoining property. If that well should come in, the property in the estate would be worth a lot more than the bequests in the will.

“Then Nadine would have the laugh on us. She’d inherit property Uncle Mosher never really wanted her to have. You see, leaving her everything that might be left over... well, it’s a peculiar situation.”

“I see,” Mason said, his eyes twinkling.

“So,” Mrs. Newburn went on, “anything she can do to keep the estate from being closed will be all to the good for her. She’s even willing to hatch up a murder case which she knows she can beat so she can keep the estate in probate.”

“You mean she’d confess to a purely fictitious murder?” Mason asked.

“Why not? What harm would it do? They couldn’t touch her, particularly if she pretended she was drugged at the time of the confession.”

“You think she’d do anything like that?”

“Of course she would. She’s doing it.”

“And all this elaborate pattern of emotional upset was simply an excuse to get the probate delayed?”

“Of course. Can’t you see what she’s doing? She wants to get the body of Uncle Mosher exhumed. She wants delay, delay, delay. And all the time she’s gambling on that oil well coming in — and she’s gambling with our money.”

“I thought it was in the estate.”

“Well, you can see what I mean.”

“Well,” Mason told her, “you may go home and quit worrying. The tablets that Nadine gave Mosher Higley were exactly what she thought they were when she put them in the chocolate — a sugar substitute.”

Mrs. Newburn’s face showed startled, incredulous surprise.

“So,” Mason said, getting to his feet, “your uncle died a natural death, and you can quit worrying.”

“But I still don’t understand. I—”

Mason stood looking gravely down at her. “I’m quite certain you don’t,” he said. “And if it’s going to be to Nadine Fair’s advantage to delay the closing of the estate and the sale of the Wyoming property until oil can be discovered, I’m in a position to assure you the statements you have made to me this afternoon will cause the probate judge to block any hurried sale of the property.”

Mrs. Newburn got up from her chair, started to say something, changed her mind, walked uncertainly toward the door, turned back and said, “Well, if Uncle Mosher left any oil property, we’re entitled to it. I suppose you feel I’m a cat, Mr. Mason.”

“I would say you had a dietary deficiency,” Mason said, smiling frostily.

“How come?”

“You don’t eat enough of the foods which generate the milk of human kindness.”

Suddenly angry, she glared at him. “Well, you just wait until you’ve had a little more experience with that baby-faced bitch and... well, see what you think then!” she spat

She flounced out of the door.

Chapter Eight

Della Street unlocked the door of Mason’s office to find the lawyer reading advance copies of the Supreme Court reports.

“Well, how was the trip, Della?”

She laughed. “I had visions of spending a few days at the beach, getting a sun tan and a little surf bathing.”

Mason said, “And I had visions of a beautiful legal battle with Hamilton Burger over corpus delicti, legal medicine and professional ethics.”

“And now everything has blown up?”

Mason nodded.

“Just what happened?”

“Well,” Mason said, “it turns out that we’ve had a tempest in a teapot. Nadine Farr found an extra bottle of sweetening pills on the shelf. It never occurred to her that it wasn’t the regular bottle she had been using until Mosher Higley tasted the chocolate, suddenly became convulsed with pain and accused her of having poisoned him. She dashed down to her room, looked in the place where she had secreted the cyanide tablets, and found they were gone. That was when she found out that she had taken tablets from an extra bottle in the kitchen that she hadn’t noticed before.

“Of course, in view of Higley’s accusation, she reached what seemed to her to be a thoroughly logical conclusion — that someone had put the cyanide tablets where she would naturally place them in Higley’s drink and poison the old man.”

“But she hadn’t?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “She had a guilty conscience. She jumped at conclusions from insufficient data. That’s the worst of circumstantial evidence, Della. You grab a button and sew a vest on it and then think the button must have come off the vest.”

“But what do you suppose did become of the cyanide tablets Nadine Farr placed in her room?”

“That,” Mason said, “is something we’ll have to investigate quietly, tactfully and rapidly. Naturally it isn’t a good idea for a young woman who has entertained suicidal thoughts to remain in possession of a collection of cyanide tablets, although I think the incentive for suicide has now passed.”

“Chief, what in the world do you suppose was back of Higley’s persecution of Nadine Farr? Think of a man telling a young girl who was in love that she must go away and never communicate with the man she loved, that she must never see him again.”

“That,” Mason said, “isn’t the significant thing.”

“What is?”

“The fact that she was going to do it.”

“She wasn’t.”

“She was going to kill herself, which amounts to the same thing.”

“Higley must have been a devil.”

Mason said, “I don’t like to judge Higley on the strength of Nadine Farr’s statements. Higley is dead. He can’t defend himself. Nadine Farr hated him. Oh well, that’s all water under the bridge now. What did you do with Nadine?”

“I left her down at the beach.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“She wanted to stay. She’d been under quite a strain and when I told her that everything was all right she had quite a reaction. You know how she is. She won’t cry. She keeps her emotions all bottled up inside herself. That’s why she’s under such terrific tension.”

“And she didn’t want to go back home?”

“No, she said she didn’t want to face anyone for a little while. She said that since the rooms were already paid for she’d stay down there overnight and take a bus in the morning.”

“You think she’ll be all right, Della?”

“I think so. It’s hard to judge her, but she said she’d be fine. It was my idea that perhaps she wanted to telephone John Locke and have him meet her. She wanted to be the one to tell him — before he heard a garbled version from someone else.”

Mason nodded. “That’s probably it. Well, we may as well call it a day and—”

Paul Drake’s code knock sounded insistently urgent on the outer door.

Della Street raised her eyebrows in silent interrogation.

Mason nodded.

Della Street went over to open the door. “Hi, Paul,” she said. “We were just calling it a day. What is it? You look all excited.”

Drake closed the door, walked over to the clients’ chair, and for once didn’t sprawl out crossways but sat straight and erect. His eyes searched those of Perry Mason.

“Perry,” he said, “would you pull a fast one without telling me about it?”

“What seems to be the trouble, Paul?”

“Look, Perry, you’re in a real jam this time. It looks as though they’ve caught you with the goods.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m just wondering,” Drake said, “if you are crazy enough to do it.”

“To do what?”

“Throw that bottle out into Twomby’s Lake and then pay a boy to recover it.”

“Now wouldn’t that be something!” Mason said. “Do you mean to tell me, Paul, that Hamilton Burger is insinuating I did that?”

“He hasn’t specifically accused you as yet. He may later on. At the moment he’s dealing only in innuendoes.”

“And what’s given him all those ideas?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “Of course, you have to admit, Perry, that dredging out that bottle which Nadine Farr insisted contained cyanide of potassium and—”

“She didn’t insist on it,” Mason said. “She simply thought it might have contained cyanide tablets.”

“According to the way I heard it,” Drake said, “she told the doctor positively and absolutely that the bottle contained cyanide.”

“Well, you can hear lots of things,” Mason said, “but what interests me at the moment is what has caused you to become so steamed up and imbued with the idea that I planted this bottle of evidence.”

“They found the other bottle,” Drake said.

“What!” Mason exclaimed.

“After you walked out of police headquarters, leaving Lieutenant Tragg and Hamilton Burger sitting there with their mouths open, Burger began to get an idea that this might have been one of your fast ones.

“Lieutenant Tragg contacted the car dispatcher and they sent a radio car hurrying out to Twomby’s Lake. The cops started kids diving all over again and this time they found the bottle.”

“What do you mean, the bottle?”

“Well, call it a bottle,” Drake said. “Anyway, they found another bottle.”

“And what about this one?”

“This was the same type of bottle as the other. It had shot and tablets in it, but these tablets were cyanide of potassium.”

“The devil!” Mason exclaimed.

“That’s right. Look at the thing from Hamilton Burger’s viewpoint. He feels he has you dead to rights. Of course, Perry, I know that you have unorthodox, unconventional ideas about the cross-examination of witnesses, but if you fixed up a bottle with sugar substitute pills and shot, then went out and tossed it off the end of the pier so the boys could recover it and thereby kill the case against Nadine Farr, you really and truly stuck your neck out.”

“Is there any evidence I did anything like that?” Mason asked.

“Burger says there is. Two of the boys saw you throw something out into the water.”

“Oh Lord!” Mason exclaimed. “How dumb can the guy get! I threw a stone out into the water to estimate the distance where Nadine’s bottle would have hit the water.”

“Well, the kids saw you throwing something and that’s enough for the district attorney.”

Mason began to laugh, then suddenly became serious. “Go ahead, Paul.”

“That’s it,” Drake said. “That’s the story, Perry. The D.A. got to thinking things over and it occurred to him that that would be what he referred to as ‘a typical Perry Mason trick.’ So he ordered a radio car to go back and hire boys to search the lake again. And they found this other bottle, which Burger, of course, insists is the real bottle.

“If you were in Burger’s shoes you’d feel the same way he does. He acted on a hunch, and as a result of that hunch he uncovered the evidence.”

“How did you get the information, Paul?”

“From one of the newspaper reporters.”

“Hamilton Burger is giving it to the papers?”

“He’s being very ethical. He’s letting the police give it. The cops are making a dramatic story out of it. Apparently the murder case blew up when the bottle which had been recovered proved to contain only a sugar substitute. But good old Hamilton Burger, realizing the fact that he was dealing with Perry Mason, whose reputation for being ingeniously resourceful is well known in legal circles, insisted that there was no direct evidence that this bottle which Perry Mason had so ‘opportunely recovered’ was the same bottle which Nadine Farr had admitted throwing into the lake.

“So Hamilton Burger, with his keenly logical legal mind, refused to be diverted from the scent. He sent divers down to look for another bottle. And, sure enough, they found that other bottle and apparently it contained cyanide. In any event, the substance has the distinctive odor of cyanide and is now in the process of being analyzed.”

Mason motioned to Della Street. “Get Nadine on the phone.”

Della Street’s nimble fingers flew over the dial on the telephone.

Mason lit a cigarette.

Drake, his voice showing his concern, said, “Perry, you didn’t^ did you?”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t plant that bottle?”

“Hell’s bells,” Mason said, “do I look like a damn fool, Paul?”

“But if you had got away with it, it would have been such a slick scheme. It was diabolically ingenious — an answer to the whole puzzle, a simple solution that would have left Hamilton Burger out on the end of a limb, the laughingstock of everyone.”

“In other words,” Mason said, somewhat ominously, “what Hamilton Burger calls ‘a typical Perry Mason trick.’ ”

“Now don’t get me wrong, Perry,” Drake said. “I was just asking.”

“Well,” Mason said, “for your information, Paul, that is not a typical Perry Mason trick. I sometimes do things that will expose the weakness of the police theory. I sometimes cross-examine a witness by bringing him face to face with physical conditions which demonstrate the fallacy of his testimony, but I don’t go around planting evidence in order to compound murders.”

Drake’s face showed relief. He settled back in the chair. “Well,” he said, “that’s that. Although I’m darned if I know just how you’re going to go about proving that you didn’t do it.”

Mason said, “Let’s let Hamilton Burger go about proving that I did do it.”

Drake shook his head. “As far as public opinion is concerned he’s already done that. When a man says, ‘I feel that this magician was intending to pull a rabbit out of his hat; if I’m right, when I look in the silk hat I’ll find a rabbit,’ and then he looks in the silk hat and pulls out a rabbit, he’s proved his point as far as popular opinion is concerned.”

Della Street, looking up from the telephone, said, “The motel reports that Miss Farr has checked out.”

“Who’s on the line?” Mason asked.

“The manager — in this case a woman.”

“Let me talk with her.”

Mason picked up the phone, said, “Good evening. I’m sorry to bother you but I’m very anxious to get some information about Miss Farr. You say she’s checked out?”

“That’s right. She was only here a short time.”

“Can you tell me how she left?”

“A young man called for her. He asked for the number of Miss Farr’s unit. I gave it to him and... well, under the circumstances, I made it a point to keep an eye on him. We have to be rather careful, you know, particularly with single women who register.

“There was some suspicion because Miss Farr and another young woman came in together and rented separate units. However, apparently it was quite all right. Miss Farr checked out a few minutes after the young man called for her. They drove away together.”

“And about how long ago?” Mason asked.

“Not over ten or fifteen minutes. Now may I ask who you are and what is the reason for your interest?”

Mason said, “I’m acting in loco parentis, and thank you very much.”

The lawyer hung up, turned to Paul Drake. “All right, Paul. Back to normal.”

“What do you mean?” Drake asked.

“You were complaining about this case,” Mason said. “You had become so accustomed to being rushed you didn’t want to do things in a leisurely manner. That’s all over now. You can get back to the routine of running around in circles, putting on swarms of operatives, burning the midnight oil, juggling phone calls.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything you can get your hands on,” Mason said. “I want a line on John Avington Locke, a young chap in whom Nadine is very much interested and with whom she left the High-Tide Motel at the beach fifteen minutes ago. I want to know everything I can about the background of Mosher Higley. I want to find out about Mr. and Mrs. Jackson Newburn. I want to know what the police are doing in this case. I want to know everything that’s pertinent.”

Drake said, “This character they call Cap’n Hugo is in my office. He worked for Mosher Higley for years and years. He’s quite a character. I suggested that he come in and see you.”

“When?” Mason asked.

“I told him to come in during office hours and wait in my office, but he came strolling in just before I got that report about the second bottle of poison. I left him sitting there and dashed on in here.”

“What does he know?” Mason asked.

“Everything.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“He was a general man of all work. He’d been with Mosher Higley for some thirty years. When my men interviewed him they found out Cap’n Hugo is one of those rich, racy characters who doesn’t miss a thing. My man made a report giving me a summary of Hugo’s story, but he said I should talk with Hugo myself because there’s a certain amount of local color about him that can’t be put in a report. So I thought I’d size him up and you could see him if it seemed worthwhile.”

“Hugo agreed to come in?”

“He didn’t want to,” Drake said. “Claimed that he was busy. My man told him he’d pay him ten dollars to come in and talk with me and Hugo grabbed the money. Higley left him without a cent.”

Mason said, “Go back to your office, Paul, and bring him down here.”

“Anything else?” Drake asked.

“Get men working,” Mason told him. “Get your reports together. Let’s find out all the facts we can, and let’s try to find some of them first.”

“How serious can this be?” Drake asked.

“Can what be?”

“Hamilton Burger accusing you of planting a bottle for him to find—”

“Damn serious,” Mason said. “I can protest my innocence until I’m black in the face but no one’s going to believe me. It would have been such a shrewd, ingenious trick that people won’t stop to look at the ethics of it. They’ll simply smile and say that I was caught manipulating evidence.

“However, I can get around that in some way. What I’m worrying about is what it’s going to do to Nadine Farr.”

Mason turned to Della Street. “Have any idea where Dr. Denair was going, Della?”

She shook her head. “I could call his office and find—”

“Don’t. His nurse is keeping company with a police detective. That’s probably how the story of the tape recording leaked out. Okay, Paul, get busy. Bring Cap’n Hugo down here.”

Drake got up, started for the door, paused with his hand on the knob and said, “You want lots of action on this, Perry?”

Mason nodded.

“I may have to pay out a little money for fast information — getting leads on—”

“Pay out anything you have to,” Mason said, “only get the information.”

After Paul Drake had left, Della Street glanced at Perry Mason. There was no concealing the worry in her eyes.

“What do you suppose happened?” she asked.

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you suppose Nadine got to thinking about that confession she had made, went and got some sugar substitute tablets, put them in a bottle with some shot and went out and threw them off the pier?”

“Why would she have done that?” Mason asked.

“Good heavens, why not? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred that would have been all there was to it.

“Gosh, Chief, just look at the facts. Nadine took a truth serum test. She probably thought she could control what she said. She couldn’t. She told everything about Mosher Higley’s death. Then we played that tape recording back to her. She said she wanted twenty-four hours to think things over. And whatever she was planning to do was something she wanted to do in private. Remember that she wouldn’t even let Dr. Denair drive her when she left here?

“What’s more logical than for her to take some of those sugar substitute tablets, put them in a bottle with some shot, throw the bottle off the end of the pier and then sit down to wait? She knew that sooner or later a search would be made.”

“She’d have to be diabolically clever to have thought all that up,” Mason said, his manner thoughtful.

“Well,” Della Street told him, “there are clever women, you know.”

“I know,” Mason said. “It might interest you to know that Mrs. Jackson Newburn, Mosher Higley’s niece, came in to warn me about Nadine Farr.”

“What did she think of Nadine?”

“Her appraisal agreed with yours.”

Before Della could say anything else, Drake’s code knock sounded on the door of the private office.

Della Street opened it and Paul Drake said, “Here’s Cap’n Hugo to talk with you, Perry, and if you’ll excuse me I’m on my way. I’ve got some hot stuff coming in over the wire. If there’s anything you want, get in touch with me and I’ll be right down.”

Chapter Nine

“So you’re Mason, the lawyer,” Cap’n Hugo said, shuffling forward and extending his right hand.

“That’s right,” Mason said, “and you’re Cap’n Hugo.”

“That’s me.”

Mason stood for a moment sizing the man up.

Cap’n Hugo would have been around six feet tall if he had stood straight, but an easygoing slouch had been crystallized by age so that now his head was thrust forward, his shoulders rounded. The man seemed abnormally thin except that the forward thrust of his spine had pushed his stomach out so that he seemed a little paunchy in the middle. His neck, arms, wrists and ankles were pipestem thin.

He had high cheekbones, a pointed jaw and a sloping forehead. The forward thrust of his neck held his face downward so that he had to look up when he wanted to meet a person’s eyes. He accomplished this by a little sideways, upward toss of the head and an elevation of his eyebrows. For the most part the man seemed intent on looking at the floor. From time to time he darted these elfin glances upward in what almost seemed a deliberately droll manner.

Mason said, “Sit down, Cap’n. Paul Drake told me you were an interesting character and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Go right ahead,” Cap’n Hugo drawled. “They paid me ten dollars for just sittin’ down an’ talkin’. Easiest money I ever made in my life. What you want me to talk about?”

He eased his figure down into a chair, put his hands on his knees, flashed an upward glance at Mason, then relaxed so that Mason could see only the tip of the man’s nose, his bushy white eyebrows and the light glinting from the bald head.

“I understand the police are investigating the death of Mosher Higley,” Mason said.

This time the head came up with a jerk, the gray eyes flashed from under the bushy eyebrows.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Cap’n Hugo demanded.

“That’s my understanding,” Mason said.

For a moment Cap’n Hugo held his head up, looking at Mason, then, as though the upthrust position caused him pain in his spine, he lowered his head again and said, “Hell, there ain’t nothin’ to investigate. Old Mosher Higley kicked the bucket just like all of us are goin’ to do some day. I understand some doc got Miss Nadine full of dope and she had a pipe dream. If the police are goin’ to investigate all dope dreams like that the real crooks couldn’t ask for nothin’ better. Cops’ll be too damn busy to work on real crime. Hell, they’ll be all worn out.”

“You were with him at the time he died?” Mason asked.

“Sure I was with him.”

“I mean in the room with him?”

“Nope, I was washin’ windows in the dinin’ room. Don’t ordinarily do it. Figure that’s a woman’s work. But those windows were pretty danged dirty and it’s hard to get women these days. We have a housekeeper so-called, comes in once a week, charges a dollar an hour — makes me mad every time I think of it.”

“Did you work by the hour?”

“Me?” Cap’n Hugo asked, flashing Mason another quick glance, then dropping his head again. “Hell no! I didn’t work by no hour. I worked by the job. Guess I prob’ly ain’t goin’ to have no more jobs now. Old Mosher cut me right off at the pockets. Don’t blame him none. But I been with old Mosher Higley so long I couldn’t work for nobody else anyway. He understood me and I understood him.”

“What’ll you do?” Mason asked.

“Old Mosher left me half salary for four months. Wouldn’t have done any good if he’d left me more. The estate can’t pay out. There ain’t half enough unless they strike oil on that Wyoming property. The niece’s husband who specializes in oil properties seems to think there’s oil up there, been pesterin’ Mosher for eighteen months tryin’ to get Mosher to sell. Mosher just told him nope, he hated to do business with relatives.”

Cap’n Hugo treated himself to a dry chuckle which shook his thin shoulders and caused his head to nod slightly.

“Was that the real reason?” Mason asked.

“Hell no,” Cap’n Hugo said. “Mosher figured he could make a better deal if he waited. He thought Jackson Newburn had his eye on it and I guess the boy did, all right. Can’t blame him for tryin’. But Mosher was too goldinged smart for him. Mosher wouldn’t let it go for what Newburn was willin’ to give.”

“What about Nadine Fan?” Mason asked.

“Nicest little girl you ever seen,” Cap’n Hugo said. “Pretty as a picture. Sweet too. Nice girl to be around. Livin’ there, studyin’ nights, givin’ me help whenever she could, bein’ just as sweet as she could to Mosher. Mosher never appreciated her at all. Used to be awful mean to her. Sometimes it made me downright mad.”

“How long had you been working with Mosher Higley?” Mason asked.

“About thirty years. When his wife was alive I was chauffeur and gardener. Then she died and Mosher started livin’ alone, so I sort of worked in on lots of jobs. First thing I knew I was just putterin’ around, cookin’ for me and Mosher. We didn’t want much, just ordinary type of grub. I cooked chicken and things the way Mosher wanted ’em and— Hell, I’m gettin’ to be an old man, Mr. Mason.”

“What are you going to do now that your job’s folded?” Mason asked.

“Goin’ down South and get me one of these little shacks on the bank of a river that’s got a few catfish in it. You can build a shack out of corrugated iron and be right comfortable. Get me a place where I can catch catfish. Don’t worry about me. Ill get along.”

“Don’t you think that Mosher Higley, under all the circumstances, could have arranged to take care of your declining years?”

“Why the hell should he?”

“You gave him years of loyal service.”

“He paid wages, didn’t he? Way I figure it he didn’t owe me nothin’ an’ I didn’t owe him nothin’.”

“What are you doing out there at the house now?” Mason asked.

“Just squattin’, waitin’ for someone to throw me out. Reckon the property’ll be sold soon as the red tape can be unsnarled.”

“The niece and her husband aren’t going to live in the house?”

“Hell no. They’re all right where they are.”

Mason said, “I wish you’d tell me something about Nadine Farr and about what happened the day Mosher Higley died.”

“I already told you.”

“How did it happen Nadine Farr was living with Mosher Higley?”

“He sent for her.”

“Let’s get back to the day that Mosher Higley died,” Mason said. “Do you remember the things that took place that day?”

“Remember ’em just like I remember what happened five minutes ago.”

“You were washing windows?”

“That’s right.”

“Did Higley have a nurse?”

“Had two of ’em, one workin’ days, one workin’ nights.”

“Trained nurses?”

“Nope. Practical nurses on twelve-hour shifts.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“Heart trouble.”

“He was overweight?”

“Not so much when he died. He’d been pretty heavy but the doc had taken quite a bit off’n him. Reckon he weighed about a hundred and eighty-five when he died.”

“And this was on a Saturday?”

“Yep, that’s right, Saturday noon. Miss Nadine, she would sort of take charge of things on Saturday and keep the house runnin’. And at noon she’d give the daytime nurse a breathin’ spell. Nadine’s awful nice to people, just an awful nice girl.”

“How about the niece? She didn’t live there in the house with him?”

“Mrs. Newburn? Not her. She wouldn’t be caught dead hangin’ around there — there might be some work for her to do. She wouldn’t like that. It would stain her hands. She lives in an apartment, one of those affairs where they push a button to wash dishes, turn a dodad so the air is just right — summer it’s cool, winter it’s warm.”

“That takes money?” Mason asked.

“I reckon. I never asked ’em and they never told me. I wouldn’t know what things like that cost because I never went shoppin’ for those kind of gadgets. They ain’t fittin’ to my type of beauty.”

“Didn’t Mrs. Newburn and her husband come to visit Mosher Higley frequently?”

“Oh sure. They were keepin’ their fences up. And every time they came they had some dirty dig for Miss Nadine. Honest, the way they treated that girl was a crime. I don’t know how Miss Nadine managed to keep sweet and patient all the time, but she did.”

“Now on the day that Mosher Higley died, had they been to see him?”

“Mrs. Newburn had... now, wait a minute, they both had. They both went in and talked with him and—”

“What time was that?”

“I reckon that was around eleven o’clock. Then Jackson Newburn said he had some kind of an errand to run and he drove off in his car. He was to come back and pick up his wife about noon, and that’s what he did.”

“And how long after that did Higley die?”

“Not long. Miss Nadine was fixin’ his lunch. He was a funny coot — wanted all the rich things that he couldn’t have and he’d cheat on his diet with a little of this and a little of that and a little of the other — ate lots of sugar substitutes. He said that they didn’t do him no harm. I don’t know — maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. Me, I ain’t never been bothered puttin’ on weight so I wouldn’t know — eat anythin’ I want to eat, only as I get older I don’t want so much.”

“And then what happened?”

“Well, Miss Nadine took him up some dry toast and some hot chocolate made with this here sugar substitute. It seemed like she was gone... oh, I don’t know, maybe ten minutes or so. I was gettin’ ready to come in and eat some lunch myself when I heard Miss Nadine scream—”

“Then what?”

“Then she came runnin’ downstairs and telephoned for the doc. Then she went flyin’ back upstairs, so I went up and Mosher was gaspin’ and havin’ fits. It seemed like he was sort of smotherin’, then he died, leastwise I thought he was dead.”

“How long did it take the doctor to get there?”

“Not very long, maybe ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Then what?”

“Then the doc he looked at him, thumped him over and said that he was dead and it was fortunate he’d passed out quick without sufferin’, and told Miss Nadine she was upset and better have some stuff to quiet her down.”

“Did he give her something?”

“Yep. He gave her a couple of pills and told her to lie down and that he’d make all the arrangements.”

“And what did Miss Nadine do then?”

“Went out through the kitchen and into her room.”

“She reaches her room through the kitchen?”

“That’s right. Her bedroom didn’t amount to much. It’s downstairs in the basement, got a little dinky shower and toilet in it... never could figure why Mosher wouldn’t put her in one of the guest rooms. That would leave her near him so he could call to her at night and she wouldn’t have to come traipsin’ all over the house.

“But not Mosher. He never had guests, but he had to have those guest rooms always kept ready. He was funny that way. He rigged up an electric bell system so he could press a button and it would ring a buzzer in Miss Nadine’s room and she’d have to come runnin’. Of course, he didn’t use that much after he got the nurses. He had another bell for the nurses. Had a night nurse sittin’ around there where she could keep an eye on him — not much of a job. When he’d sleep she’d sleep. I think they gave him somethin’ to keep him asleep most of the time. Anyhow, this nurse was there in case he took bad so she could notify the doc and give him some sort of a hypo or other.”

“And did that make your duties easier?”

“Hell no! Miss Nadine and I had to cook for those nurses. That nurse who was on nights, she wanted somethin’ hot at midnight. Far as I’m concerned I just don’t want no women clutterin’ up a house, unless they’re helpful like Miss Nadine, but these women who get bossy and want to wear the pants — I’ve been cookin’ for twenty years. I ain’t what you call a finished cook but I know how to cook. These here female women started bossin’ me. Both of ’em started tellin’ me how to do things, how to cook this, how to cook that, how to cook the other.”

“What did you do?”

“Didn’t do nothin’. I just went right ahead doin’ what I’d been doin’ all the time. It was good plain food. They could eat it or go hungry. I didn’t give a hoot.”

“Did Mosher Higley ever ask you to try and cook what they wanted?”

“Hell no. Mosher Higley knew me a damn sight better than that. One crack out of him like that I’d of been gone.”

“After all of those years of service?”

“I didn’t owe him nothin’ and he didn’t owe me nothin’. We got along together, that’s all. He couldn’t get anybody else that would put up with him, and I couldn’t get any other job, not at my age.”

“How did it happen that Nadine Farr came to live with Mosher Higley?”

“He sent for her.”

“You told me that before. Why did he send for her?”

“To give her a home.”

“Why did he want to give her a home?”

“Ask him.”

“I can’t. He’s dead. I’m asking you.”

“He knew her mother somehow and don’t ask me how or when because I ain’t one to talk about things like that.”

“Any chance that Nadine Farr was his daughter?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“I thought you might have known. You say that he knew Nadine’s mother?”

“Well, I didn’t follow him around with a flashlight when he went out nights.”

Mason said, “The police seem to feel that the circumstances surrounding Higley’s death should be reopened. They’ll probably be in touch with you.”

“Well, I guess they got a right to if they want.”

“Did Mrs. Newburn or Mr. Newburn go into the kitchen when they visited the house that day?”

“Them folks go into the kitchen? Hell no. They might go in there to snoop around and make some catty remarks. That Mrs. Newburn has the damnedest forefinger you ever saw in your life. She’ll go around runnin’ that forefinger along a window sill or under the bottom of a table or somethin’, bring it out with a little dust on it and stick it out like she’s discovered a corpse or somethin’.”

“Did she ever say anything to you?”

“Hell no. She knew better than to say anythin’ to me.”

“Did you say anything to her?”

“Hell no. I just let her stick out her finger. It was her finger. She could stick it out all she wanted. She’d rub it around, get a little dust on it, poke it out at me like she’d proved somethin’. I’d just look at it, wouldn’t say a word.”

“But you don’t think she went out in the kitchen that day?”

“Well... she could’ve. I don’t rightly remember. Anyhow, then she went up and seen Mosher. Then her husband went up and seen Mosher. Then Jackson went out and drove around some place, and then he came back and picked her up. I know he went out in the kitchen, just in and back. Seems he was lookin’ for Nadine for somethin’ or other. Then he went upstairs. He was up with Mosher about ten minutes, handin’ out a line. They didn’t give a damn for Mosher but wanted to be certain that he didn’t change his will none. They’d pour it on him like honey on hot cakes.”

“Well,” Mason said, “I just wanted to find out the facts. Thanks ever so much.”

Cap’n Hugo eased his lanky figure up out of the chair.

“Reckon you and that other feller got your ten bucks’ worth?”

Mason smiled. “I reckon we have.”

“Okay then,” Cap’n Hugo said. “I won’t have to come back. We’re square. I don’t owe you nothin’ and you don’t owe me nothin’. Good-by.”

Chapter Ten

For more than an hour after Cap’n Hugo had left the office Mason paced the floor, waiting.

From time to time Della Street glanced at her watch. At length she said, “Does a working girl get any chance to eat? It seems to me something was said about food.”

Mason, without interrupting the rhythm of his pacing, said, “We may have to get food sent in. I’d like to hear from Dr. Denair before the police contact him, and I simply have to reach Nadine Farr. How do you suppose John Locke knew where she was, Della?”

“She must have phoned him as soon as I left. That girl’s an enigma, Perry, but I sensed she had something on her mind.”

Drake’s code knock sounded on the door. Della let him in.

“Getting nervous?” Drake said, sliding into his favorite position in the big leather chair.

“He’s been biting his fingernails right down to the elbow,” Della Street said.

“How are you coming, Paul?” Mason asked.

“Well, I’ve got a lot of men out now.”

“Can you find Nadine Farr?”

“I’m hoping to have a line on her at any minute,” Drake said.

Mason frowned. “You should have had her by this time. It’s a broad trail to follow. She left the High-Tide Motel with John Locke and—”

“How do you know she went out with John Locke?” Drake interrupted.

“Don’t be silly,” Mason said. “The manager told me so. Locke came and asked for her cabin. She watched them go out. The girl hadn’t had anything to eat. It’s a cinch they went to dinner somewhere. You should be able to locate the places that Locke was in the habit of patronizing.”

“That’s all very fine,” Drake said, “but your facts are jumbled.”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t go out with John Locke.”

“She didn’t!” Mason exclaimed.

Drake said, “I’ll give you a piece of information that may jar you a bit. The manager of the motel says that the man who called for her was driving a two-tone Olds. She thought they turned in at a gas station on the next corner. I checked with the gas station attendant. Naturally he can’t remember all the cash sales but I checked on sales where the customer had used a credit card and I find that at just about the time Nadine Farr checked out, Jackson Newburn was buying gas on a credit card at that station. I—”

The phone rang.

Drake said, “I left your unlisted number with my operator, Perry. I hope it’s all right. I—”

Della Street, answering the telephone, nodded to Paul Drake. “For you, Paul.”

Drake took the telephone, said, “Hello,” listened for a minute then said, “Where is he now?... Wait a minute. Hang on to the line.”

Drake turned to Mason. “Officers are crawling all over the place, Perry,” the detective said. “A couple of men from the Homicide Squad are watching the apartment where John Avington Locke lives. A couple more are watching the house where Mosher Higley died — that’s where Nadine Farr is living at the present time. My men found out that John Locke frequently ate at a little place known as The Smoked Pheasant out on Sunset. I told them to check the place. John Locke is in there eating.”

“Alone?” Mason asked.

“Alone,” Drake said. “Now then, if Locke leaves there and drives home he’ll walk right into the arms of the police. The point is, do you want to see him first?”

“You’re damn right I want to see him first.”

“Okay,” Drake told him, “you’d better get out there. He’s twenty-six, wearing a pepper-and-salt tweed suit, cordovan shoes, no hat, reddish-brown hair a little high at the forehead.”

“I’m on my way,” Mason said. “Tell your operative to keep him covered.”

Drake said into the telephone, “Perry Mason will be out there. He’ll get in touch with you. You know Mason from his pictures. Keep an eye out for him. Don’t let the subject know he’s under surveillance or let him see you talking to Mason.”

Drake hung up, held an open notebook in his hand and said, “I have a lot of stuff you should know before you go out there, Perry.”

Mason, headed for the hat closet, called back over his shoulder, “There isn’t time, Paul. I’ll have to get moving.”

“Well,” Drake said, “I know now what it’s all about. I know the hold that Higley had over Nadine Farr. I know all about Nadine’s past and—”

“And do you know why she picked this particular time to go out with Jackson Newburn?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “That I don’t know.”

“Mrs. Newburn thinks she has the answer,” Mason told him. “I laughed at her when she told me. Right now I’m not so sure. Mrs. Newburn comes in to see me and while she’s gone Nadine phones Mrs. Newburn’s husband. Mrs. Newburn goes home. Her husband isn’t there. Naturally she’s trying to find out where he is. If she finds out she’s very apt to do something about it. The police are looking for Nadine. If they find Jackson Newburn with her there’ll be pictures published in the papers and the devil to pay.”

“I know,” Drake said. “I’m doing the best I can trying to locate her for you before the police can spot her.”

Mason took his hat from the hook, turned to Della Street. “Want to come, Della?”

“Do I!”

“Let’s go!”

Drake heaved himself up out of the chair, said, “I’m pounding away on this thing, Perry. What happens if I find Nadine before the police do?”

“Get her out of circulation.”

“That might be risky.”

“Then get in touch with me,” Mason said.

“And where will I find you?”

“I’ll be telephoning you from time to time. Come on, Della.”

They switched out lights in the office, latched the door and hurried down to the elevator.

Drake paused in front of his office door. “I suppose it won’t do a damn bit of good to warn you to be careful, Perry.”

Mason pushed the button on the elevator. “I can’t be careful now, Paul. They’ve dragged me into this thing. Wait until you see how Hamilton Burger smears me in the newspapers. I’m in now and I’ve got to work my way out.”

The elevator cage slid to a stop. Drake said rapidly, “I wish there was time to give you some of this important information, Perry.”

“So do I,” Mason said as the door opened.

“You’ll be calling me?”

“From time to time,” Mason promised.

He and Della entered the elevator, said nothing further until they were ensconced in Mason’s car, driving out toward Hollywood.

“You think Hamilton Burger will smear you in the papers?” Della asked.

“Oh, not Hamilton Burger,” Mason said with elaborate sarcasm. “It’s unethical for an attorney to use the papers to prejudice public opinion. Oh, Hamilton Burger wouldn’t think of doing anything like that! Hamilton Burger will be very ethical. He will probably even refuse to make any comment for fear of violating professional ethics.

“But the police, showing an almost clairvoyant understanding of what Hamilton Burger would have said if he had been free to make any statements, will give the press plenty of information. On the other hand, an attorney representing a defendant doesn’t have anyone to make statements on his behalf. He’s hooked.”

“You mean to say you can’t even make a denial to the press?” she asked.

“Denials won’t do much good,” Mason told her.

“Then I don’t know what would help,” Della Street said.

Mason said, “That bottle with the harmless tablets and the shot in it didn’t get into Twomby’s Lake of its own accord. Somebody threw it in there. Before we get done we’re going to have to prove who did throw it in there, otherwise—”

“Otherwise?” she prompted as his voice trailed off into silence as he braked to a stop at a traffic signal.

“Otherwise I’m stuck with it,” Mason said.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Mason said, “Let’s take inventory, Della. We have Nadine Farr, who has confessed to having poisoned Mosher Higley, feeling at the moment that she’s completely out of all of her difficulties. She’s out somewhere with Jackson Newburn. She’ll tell him about the most recent developments and neither one of them will know that the police are looking for them. We have Dr. Denair completely out of touch with developments. We have Mrs. Jackson Newburn hating Nadine Farr with a deep and bitter hatred and somewhat suspicious that her husband may be becoming entangled in the fatal web of Nadine’s charm. We have the police frantically looking for Nadine, and we have John Locke apparently oblivious of all of these more recent developments.”

“Why do you say apparently oblivious?” Della Street asked.

“Because,” Mason said, “someone who had a rather clever mind decided to help Nadine Farr by putting harmless pills in a bottle filled with shot and tossing it out into Twomby’s Lake. Thinking that I had that bright idea the police won’t look any farther, but since I know I didn’t do it, I’m naturally looking for the man who did, and until I can size up John Locke I’m not putting it past him.”

“Suppose he did do it?” Della Street asked.

“Then,” Mason said, “the important thing is to get him to admit that he did it and see that the story as run in the newspapers is sufficiently dramatic to make the front page.”

“Which is why we’re in such a hurry to get to John Locke?”

“Which is one of the reasons we’re in such a hurry to get to John Locke.”

Thereafter they drove in silence until Mason found a parking place for the car near The Smoked Pheasant.

Mason took Della Street’s arm, walked down the sidewalk, passed the café once, turned around and started back.

A man standing by the doorway struck a match to light a cigarette. The flame illuminated his features.

“Mason,” he said under his breath.

Mason paused.

“Keep walking,” the man said. “I’ll join you.”

Mason and Della Street walked down the sidewalk. The man came along from behind, looked over his shoulder, then fell into step at Mason’s side.

“Is he in there?” Mason asked.

“Still there.”

“Any sign of police?”

“Not yet. I thought you might be hot and—”

“I am,” Mason said, “but they don’t know it yet. What’s he doing?”

“Just finishing his dessert. He’ll be coming out pretty quick. That’s why I got out ahead of him.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “Go back. Stand where you were. When he comes out light another cigarette.”

“You coming back now?”

“You go back first,” Mason said. “I’ll wait outside.”

The operative turned and left them, took up his station in front of the café. Mason and Della Street turned slowly back.

Della Street sniffed the air. “I’ll bet that café has darned good cooking,” she said.

Mason nodded. “Smells like it.”

“Couldn’t we go in and eat something and ask him to join us?”

Mason shook his head.

“Why?”

“Drake’s man found out he frequently ate here. The police can dig up that same information. They may show up at any minute. Here he comes now!”

The door opened. A young man stepped out, looked up the street, turned toward Della Street and Perry Mason. The detective in the doorway struck a match, held the flame to his cigarette.

The young man who had emerged from the restaurant started walking rapidly down the street. He was a slender, quick-moving individual, who gave the impression of nervous energy and tension, a man who would be quick to anger, who would form likes and dislikes rapidly, and, once having reached an adverse decision, would be difficult to change.

“Okay,” Mason said in a low voice to Della, “let’s go.”

They walked slowly until near the end of the block they let the young man overtake them.

“John Locke?” Mason asked just as the man passed him.

The man whirled as though Mason had jabbed him with a pointed instrument. His face showed a certain amount of alarm, a complete lack of cordiality.

Della Street, seeing that expression on his face, said sweetly, “I wonder if you’d mind talking with us about Nadine Farr.”

“Who are you?” he asked, his eyes shifting to Della Street, then his expression gradually softening under the influence of her smile.

“Friends,” Mason said.

“Friends of whom?”

“Of yours and of Nadine.”

“Prove it.”

“Let’s keep walking,” Della Street said, and then added swiftly and with just that note of consideration in her voice which made it seem the decision rested with Locke, “shall we?”

By that time, however, both Mason and Della Street were walking one on each side of the young man.

“What’s this all about?” he asked.

“I’m Perry Mason, a lawyer,” the lawyer told him. “I’m helping Nadine.”

“Did she consult you?”

“Not directly. Dr. Denair consulted me.”

“Dr. Denair,” Locke said angrily. “If he’d kept his fingers out of this there wouldn’t have been any trouble.”

“That, of course, is an academic point now,” Mason said. “The thing is that regardless of how we happened to get into this thing we’re all of us interested in helping Nadine.”

“She doesn’t need help. All she needs to do is to keep quiet. The more you try to explain the more trouble you’re going to make and sooner or later—”

“I’m afraid you’re not fully posted on developments,” Mason said.

“Such as what?” Locke asked.

Mason said, “Police raided Dr. Denair’s office this morning. They had a search warrant. They demanded possession of the tape recording.”

“Good heavens, did Dr. Denair give it to them?”

“He had no choice in the matter, although as it happened Dr. Denair wasn’t there. If he had been, he probably would have refused until it could have been adjudicated whether the tape recording was a privileged communication, but Dr. Denair was absent. His nurse was there and she honored the search warrant and surrendered the tape recording. You hadn’t heard about that?”

“No.”

“Well,” Mason said, “there have been quite a few developments. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss them. Suppose we get in my automobile and I’ll take you to wherever you’re going.”

“I was going to my apartment.”

“Under the circumstances,” Mason told him, “it might not be wise to go to your apartment right at the moment. I think it would be better to wait until you’re fully familiar with certain facts.”

“Why shouldn’t I go to my apartment?”

“Because the police want to question you.”

“What do they have to question me about?”

“That,” Mason said, “is the question.”

John Locke strode along for a few seconds, maintaining an angry silence.

“If we could only tell you some of the things that you should know,” Della Street said, “it would help you protect Nadine.”

“Go ahead and talk.”

Mason stopped abruptly. “I’m going back to my car,” he said. “Della, you can talk with Locke. Tell him all of the developments in the case. Don’t hold back anything. I’ll go get the car and pick you up.”

Locke stopped, sized Della Street up for a few moments, then said to Mason, “What’s she to you?”

“My confidential secretary,” Mason said. “She has been for years. She knows everything about my business, everything about this case.”

Locke said, “All right, we’ll all go back. We can talk while we’re walking.”

Mason motioned to Della Street. She took the inside of the sidewalk so that Locke was between them.

Mason, talking rapidly, said, “Why did you tell Cap’n Hugo about the confession, about that tape recording?”

“How do you know I did?”

“Because Cap’n Hugo evidently told Mrs. Jackson Newburn and somehow the police got on to it.”

“If Cap’n Hugo has told, I’ll¯”

“Take it easy,” Mason interrupted. “Hugo is something of a character. He’s talkative and he’s independent. You have to take him the way he is. He may be a very important witness in the case. Let’s not antagonize him.”

“Go ahead. Tell me what happened.”

Mason said, “After the police got hold of that tape recording I felt that it was essential to find out whether there was anything to Miss Farr’s confession or whether it was the distorted hallucination of a drugged brain.”

“Well, that’s all it was.”

“Now just a minute,” Mason said. “Wait until you get the picture. I went out to Twomby’s Lake where she said she had thrown the bottle. I hired some boys who were swimming to dive and see what they could find. They came up with a bottle filled with shot and containing some pills.”

“The deuce they did!”

“I took those pills to Hermann Korbel, a consulting chemist,” Mason said. “Police backtracked me and got the evidence from Korbel before he had a chance to complete his investigation, but he had enough material from the pills so that he was able to show that the pills were not cyanide. They—”

“They weren’t?”

“No, they were completely harmless.”

“What were they?”

“The sugar substitute that had come in the bottle originally.”

“Well, then, that’s all there is to it,” Locke said. “She didn’t know she’d poisoned him. She only knew she’d given him some pills from a bottle and afterwards she began to wonder if that bottle was the one it was supposed to be. If the bottle was recovered from the lake and—”

“That’s what I thought,” Mason interrupted. “It’s what I told Dr. Denair. It’s what I told Nadine. It’s what I told the police. I told them they didn’t have a case, that there hadn’t been any murder. I laughed at them.”

“Well, then, why all the excitement?”

“Because afterward the police went out to the lake, got boys to do some more diving and found another bottle, just like the first. This one had shot and pills in it. These pills were cyanide of potassium.”

Locke started to say something, then changed his mind. He walked several yards in silence.

“All right,” Mason said, “this is my car. Let’s get in.”

His manner was sufficiently brusque so that it left no room for refusal.

Della Street held the door open. “We’ll ride three in front,” she said. “You get in next to Mr. Mason so you can hear him and I’ll sit on the outside.”

Locke jumped into the car without any hesitation. Della Street climbed in after him and pulled the door shut.

Mason started the motor, switched on the lights and swung away from the curb.

“Where’s Nadine?” Locke asked.

“That,” Mason said, “is what I am trying to find out. We’d like to reach her before the police do.”

“And you don’t know where she is?”

“No.”

“I understood she was—”

“Yes?” Mason asked as Locke broke off.

“I don’t know where she is,” Locke said.

Mason drove steadily, his eyes straight ahead.

Locke turned suddenly to Mason, said, “You’ll have to hide me. I can’t afford to talk with the police.”

“Why not?” Mason asked.

“Because of what I know.”

Mason glanced obliquely at Della Street, then kept his eyes on the road ahead, saying nothing, waiting for Locke to talk.

At length Locke blurted, “I know she got the cyanide.”

“Keep talking,” Mason said.

“At that time one of my associates in the laboratory was making some experiments with cyanide. He had to use quite a quantity. We know what the different jars weigh down to a fraction of a gram. So by weighing the cyanide jar and the contents the technician knew exactly how much cyanide was in the jar. He had to carry on the experiment he was conducting by dropping in a little more cyanide until he secured just the reaction he wanted. Then the mixture had to sit over a thirty-six-hour period. When he had finished his experiments he knew how many cyanide pellets he had put in, but just in order to check, he weighed the cyanide jar. That was when he found there were about two dozen pills short. So he asked me what I had been using the cyanide for. I told him ‘Nothing,’ that I hadn’t opened the jar. So then he checked his weights again and it became apparent that some two dozen pills were short.”

“What did you do?” Mason asked.

“I told him that there must have been a mistake as far as the weight was concerned, or that his scales must have been off balance. I could see that he wasn’t convinced. I was able to put up a good front because at the time the explanation hadn’t dawned on me.”

“When did it dawn on you?”

“Several hours later. I kept thinking over the thing and wondering what could have happened. We suspected the janitor and gave him a going-over and then suddenly I remembered that Nadine had been in the laboratory with me and I had pointed out the cyanide jar to her.”

“So what did you do?” Mason asked. “Did you get in touch with her?”

“I tried to. It wasn’t a thing you could very well take up by telephone. Of course, the first thing that occurred to me was that something had happened and... well, you know what I would naturally think under those circumstances.”

“Suicide?” Mason asked.

Locke nodded.

“So what did you do?”

“So I went to see her. I didn’t trust to the telephone. Believe me, I dashed out there as fast as I could.”

“To the place where she was living?”

“Yes. Mosher Higley’s house.”

“You’d been there before?”

“Heavens yes. I was friendly with Mosher Higley. In fact, I met Nadine through him. My family and Higley’s have been friendly for years.”

“Tell me about the cyanide.”

“I got there and Nadine wasn’t home. She’d gone down to the market. I wanted to go to her room but there wasn’t any way I could do it. The nurses were there around the house and Cap’n Hugo is nobody’s fool. He’s a shrewd, watchful individual and... well, I made the mistake of showing my excitement when I came rushing in and asking for Nadine. After that he wouldn’t take his eyes off me.”

“So what happened?”

“So,” Locke said, “I finally confided in Cap’n Hugo. I told him that... I just told him what had happened. I asked him first if he’d noticed anything strange about Nadine.”

“Had he?”

“We both had. She’d been under a terrific strain. She was trying to act normal but she was overdoing it, and... you know how it is.”

“All right. You told Cap’n Hugo. What did you tell him?”

“I told him the truth. I told him that I had reason to believe Nadine had taken some cyanide pills from the laboratory, that if so she must have them in her room and I wanted to get them.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, I couldn’t very well go there with the nurses around and Nadine due back any minute, but Cap’n Hugo... he’s an understanding sort of chap. He’ll talk a leg off of you at times, but at times when the chips are down he’s true blue.”

“What did he do?”

“He told me to wait. He went to Nadine’s room and found a bottle that had some pills in it. He brought that bottle to me and asked me if those were the pills.”

“What did you do?”

“I smelled them and it needed only one smell to tell what they were. There’s a characteristic odor of bitter almonds about cyanide and—”

“And you smelled that odor?”

“That’s right.”

“How many pills were in the bottle?” Mason asked.

“Just about the number that was missing.”

“Now wait a minute,” Mason said. “Your associate weighed the bottle containing the cyanide before his experiment and afterward?”

“Yes.”

“And he knew exactly how many cyanide pellets he had put in his experimental mixture?”

Locke nodded.

“So when he said there were two dozen pills short he wasn’t guessing, he—?”

“Actually there were twenty-five pellets short according to his calculations.”

“How many pellets were in the bottle that Cap’n Hugo gave you?” Mason asked.

“Frankly, I didn’t count them. I estimated them.”

“Why didn’t you count them?”

“Because there wasn’t time.”

“What happened?”

“I wanted to get out before Nadine returned.”

“And you did so?”

“Yes. Actually I passed her just as she was leaving the market. She didn’t see me. I was driving rather fast.”

“How far was the market from the house?”

“About two and a half blocks.”

“When did all this happen?”

“The Saturday Mosher Higley died.”

“What time?”

“Around eleven-thirty.”

“Did you see Newburn’s car?”

“Not his car. He wasn’t there, but Mrs. Newburn was upstairs visiting with Mosher Higley.”

“What was Cap’n Hugo doing when you arrived?”

“Washing windows in the dining room.”

“To get to Nadine’s room it’s necessary to go through the kitchen?”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t go as far as her room?”

“Just to the head of the stairs leading to the basement. I waited there to warn Cap’n Hugo if she should come in.”

“Did you notice whether there was chocolate cooking on the Stove?”

“Yes. There was chocolate melting in the double boiler but the fire had been turned off.”

“Later on, did you ask Nadine about the poison?”

“I intended to question her that afternoon but... well, you know what happened. Mosher Higley died and she was all broken up. The doctor gave her a sedative. She slept for nearly twenty-four hours, and after she wakened she was like a changed woman. I... I knew Mosher Higley had been treating her like a dog and... I just felt it wasn’t necessary to have any conversation with her then. I felt there was no chance she’d try to... well, to do away with herself.”

Mason drove for several seconds in thoughtful silence.

“So now,” Locke said, “you can understand how it happened that I confided in Cap’n Hugo about that confession. I didn’t want you to think I was a completely irresponsible gossip. But you can see what happened. After Dr. Denair got that tape-recorded statement from Nadine she told me about it and, of course, that put an entirely new slant on things, so I reassured her as best I could and—”

“Did she tell you at that time about having taken the cyanide from your laboratory?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you tell her about what had happened to it?”

“Nothing. She said it was missing from her room and I... well, I didn’t say a word because I knew that it couldn’t have been used in connection with Mosher Higley’s death and I felt certain that sooner or later we could convince her that Higley had died a purely natural death.”

“But you did go to Cap’n Hugo.”

“I went to Cap’n Hugo and told him about the tape recording and about what Nadine felt had happened.”

“And then what?”

“Cap’n Hugo said that he thought the proper thing to do was to let Mrs. Newburn know about that confession.”

“Why?”

“Because Mrs. Newburn would start an investigation, and after the investigation was started Cap’n Hugo could tell about having removed the poison from Nadine’s room and the whole thing could be cleared up, otherwise he was afraid Dr. Denair would preserve her confidence as a professional secret and she’d have that thing weighing on her mind.”

“You detected the distinctive odor of cyanide about those pills?” Mason asked.

“Yes. I unscrewed the top of the bottle and smelled.”

“But you don’t know how many pills were in the bottle?”

“No.”

“Let’s have it straight,” Mason said. “Could you make an estimate?”

“Well, frankly, I didn’t think... I didn’t count.”

Mason looked at him and said, “Locke, you’re lying.”

Abruptly Locke’s lips quivered.

“Go on,” Mason said, “how many pills were in the bottle?”

“Twenty-one,” Locke said.

“That’s better,” Mason told him. “Now I understand why you don’t want to talk with the police.”

“Mr. Mason, I’ll never admit that to the police. I’ll... I’ll lie.”

“You think you will,” Mason told him. “You don’t have any idea of what you’re going up against. You aren’t a good enough liar to convince the police. Your associate will tell the police how many pills were short. He’ll also tell the police that he told you the number of pills that were short. The police won’t believe for a minute that you took that bottle of pills from Cap’n Hugo without counting them. Now did Cap’n Hugo count them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ever ask him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I... I was afraid to.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “Now then, the police will break you wide open. They’ll get the truth out of you. And when they get the truth it’ll make a case of cold-blooded, deliberate murder against Nadine Farr. They’ll feel that she had taken four cyanide pills out of that bottle and had them ready to put into Mosher Higley’s chocolate, that she did put them in Mosher Higley’s chocolate and that he died of cyanide poisoning. What did you do with those pills?”

“I drove into a service station, flushed the pills down the toilet, washed out the bottle several times, then put it in the wastepaper container.”

Mason thought over that information.

“I tell you I won’t tell them, Mr. Mason. I... I’d let them—”

“You’re talking to keep your spirits up,” Mason said. “You know damn well that when the party gets rough you can’t hold out on them. You can’t lie well enough. You’re too conscientious a lad and you don’t know about police tactics. They’ll hammer it out of you.”

“All right,” Locke said desperately. “What am I going to do?”

Mason’s face was grim. “Right now,” he said, “I’m damned if I know.”

Chapter Eleven

Mason turned his car into the freeway.

“Where are we going?” Locke asked,

“Just at the moment,” Mason said, “we’re going wherever traffic is the heaviest. The police are looking for you. They’re probably looking for me. I thought that I’d get you and that we’d try to find Nadine before the police found her. Now the main problem is to keep the police from finding you until we work out some method of handling this thing.”

“What method can we work out?” Locke asked.

“If I knew the answer,” Mason said, “we wouldn’t be driving around. I can tell you one thing. If Nadine is guilty of murder she’s going to have to face the facts.”

“She isn’t. Mr. Mason, I can assure you absolutely and positively that she isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know Nadine.”

“Because you have faith in her,” Mason said. “That’s your only reason. And the reason you have faith in her is because you’re in love with her.”

“Don’t you feel the same way?”

“Not right now I don’t,” Mason said. “I’m not in love with her... not by a damn sight.”

“Well, we can’t drive around this way all night,” Locke said. “If the police are looking for me they’ll — I tell you, Mr. Mason, I don’t have to tell them this. I can keep my own counsel. I know I can.”

Mason’s silence was an eloquent refutation.

“Couldn’t I get an attorney to represent me? Couldn’t he advise me not to answer questions on the ground that it would incriminate me?”

Mason shook his head, then after a moment said, “You’d simply make matters worse.”

Della Street caught Mason’s eye after looking at him significantly for a few moments. “Do you suppose,” she said, “Paul Drake has something new to report?”

“It’s a thought,” Mason admitted.

“He may have the whereabouts of the person—”

Mason nodded, then interrupted by turning to John Locke. “Look here, John,” he said, “I want you to be frank with me. You knew that something was troubling Nadine?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have any idea what it was?”

“At the time, no.”

“You have now?”

“I understand that Mosher Higley had told her she had to go away and... well, that he wouldn’t permit us to get married.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, I don’t,” Locke said angrily. “Mr. Mason, you try not to hold things against the dead, but every time I think of that it makes my blood boil.”

“Did he perhaps have some idea that Nadine wasn’t good enough for you?”

“Probably the other way around,” Locke said. “Although of course, I’m not exactly an angel, I think I’m perhaps average. Mosher Higley lived such a completely isolated life I don’t think he ever... well, he never had any human emotions. He was just a damned old—” Locke caught himself in the midst of what threatened to become an angry tirade.

“Nadine never told you what he had... what he was holding over her?”

“All he was holding over her was an arbitrary authority,” Locke said. “You didn’t know Mosher Higley. You have no idea how cold that man could be, how petty, how overbearing, how completely domineering. I tried to be respectful to him. He was a friend of my family and... well, of course, he was an older man.”

“All right. Now let’s talk about Jackson Newburn,” Mason said.

“You don’t mean his wife?”

“No, I mean Jackson himself.”

“All right, what about him?”

“How did Nadine feel toward him?”

“More friendly than she did toward any of the others. Jackson tries to be reasonable. And I think Jackson saw a lot of things.”

“Any attachment?” Mason asked. “Anything personal?”

“Between Jackson and Nadine?” Locke asked in surprise.

Mason nodded.

“Good heavens, no!”

“Sure?” Mason asked.

“Of course I’m sure. Jackson is married to Sue and Nadine is... well, Nadine’s affections are spoken for.”

“Meaning with you?” Mason asked.

“I didn’t want to express it in just that way and in just those words,” Locke said, “but Nadine and I are in love and want to get married.”

“She has nothing in common with Jackson Newburn?”

“Nothing.”

Mason eased the car over to the right and left the freeway on one of the cross streets.

“Where are we going?” Locke asked somewhat apprehensively.

“I’m going to a telephone,” Mason told him. “I have a detective working on the case and I want to find out if he’s learned anything. While I’m telephoning I’d like to have you think over every possible place where Nadine might be. Perhaps you’ll think of some place where you can reach her by telephone.”

“Suppose I don’t go home tonight at all — won’t that look bad?”

“That would look very bad indeed,” Mason said. “You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to do anything that will make the police suspicious. But you have two hours, or perhaps three hours, before you have to show up. You can tell them you were doing some research work.”

“Suppose I say I was at a movie?”

“They’ll ask you to describe it and all about it.”

“I can do that. I’ll pick out one that I’ve already seen.”

“It’ll have to be in a big theater,” Mason said, “where no one will remember you. Buy a ticket, walk in, keep the stub of the ticket, then after a few minutes walk out. I’ll take you to a theater as soon as I can find a phone. There doesn’t seem to be much along this street. Oh-oh, here’s a phone booth.”

Mason had to drive around the corner in order to find a place to park the car. “You two wait here,” he said, then walked back to the phone booth and called Paul Drake.

“Hello, Paul,” Mason said when he had Drake on the line. “What’s new? Anything?”

“Nothing particularly startling.”

“Located Nadine Farr?”

“No, but I’ve located Jackson Newburn.”

“And she’s with him?”

“Definitely not.”

“Why do you say definitely not?”

“I intimated that she might be and got a very, very cold turndown.”

“How come?”

“I had a man trying to get Newburn located on the phone. I was calling every possible place where he might be. I guess the police were probably doing the same thing. Anyway, I got to him first, or at least I think I did.”

“Where?”

“I looked up all the clubs he belonged to and called them all, leaving word that it was important that he call me as soon as he got in. I left the same message at every one of the clubs. Finally he called in from the Wildcat Exploration and Development Club. That’s a small group of plungers who go in for wildcat wells. I understand it’s quite some club — lots of action and horseplay and that sort of stuff.

“According to the story Newburn told me he’d just walked into the club. They’d given him my message and he’d called. Well, I told him that it was a matter of considerable importance and that I had to reach Nadine Farr right away.”

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“His voice got cold. He told me that he believed there was a phone in the house where she was staying, that the phone was listed under the name of Mosher Higley, and that if I’d call up and ask for Nadine she’d answer, otherwise he had no suggestions to make.”

“Then what?”

“I told him that we’d been calling the house and had no luck.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, I told him that I understood she’d been with him earlier in the evening. He said that I had been misinformed, so then I couldn’t resist trying to drop a bombshell. I told him that one of my men had reported that Nadine Farr had checked out of a motel at the beach and that he had been with her when she checked out.”

“What did that do?” Mason asked.

“Well, that had to be either kill or cure,” Drake said, “and it definitely wasn’t a cure. He told me that I was completely and absolutely mistaken, that he didn’t like the insinuation I was making, that he didn’t like the tone of my voice, that he had not been with Nadine Farr, and that if I repeated that statement or if any of my employees repeated that statement he would be forced to take action.”

“Then what?”

“Then he hung up — rather he slammed the receiver into place so it sounded like an explosion.”

“Where is he now?”

“At that club as nearly as I can tell. I started a man over there to check on him and report but the man hasn’t had time to get there yet.”

Mason said, “I want to see him, Paul.”

“Well, why not come up here and wait until my man reports? Then—”

“Because I’m hot, and I have somebody with me who is even hotter than I am.”

“Nadine Farr?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Then it must be—”

“No names, Paul.”

“Okay, the person you went out to contact.”

Mason said, “I have some information that’ll be very valuable. I’ll take a chance on Jackson Newburn being at that club. I think I want to try and interview him there.”

Drake said, “I have a few clients who are in the oil business. I’m quite certain one of them is a member of the Wildcat Club. Do you need a guest card?”

“It would simplify matters if I had one, but I can’t spare the time. I’ll just go to the door and ask for Newburn. If he refuses to see me—”

“Okay, if you run into trouble let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

Mason hung up, walked back to his car, opened the car door, said, “Hello, what’s happened to Locke?”

“He thought of something.”

“What?”

“He felt certain he knew where he could find Nadine.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Mason said. “I wanted him to telephone her and—”

“He thought he could get to where he could see her and he might not be able to get her on the phone.”

“Did he say where she was?”

“No.”

“You should have found out,” Mason said. “I don’t like the idea of his running around loose.”

“Will the cops catch him?”

“Sooner or later.”

“He seemed to understand the necessity of keeping away from the officers.”

“Hang it,” Mason said, his voice edged with annoyance, “I told him to stay here and wait. You heard me, Della.”

She nodded.

“You should have kept him here.”

“He’s nervous and impulsive and when he gets an idea through his head it gets in there all at once. He suddenly realized where Nadine must be and he wanted to go to her.”

“Well, how did he go?” Mason asked. “He didn’t just start out walking.”

“He talked to the driver of a car that was getting gassed up at the service station across the street. The man gave him a ride.”

“All right, who was the fellow?” Mason asked. “What was his license number?”

She shook her head.

“What kind of a car?”

“Well, it was a sedan, sort of a black sedan.”

“Big or little?”

“One of the medium-sized cars.”

“Old model or new?”

“Well, fairly new but not right spanking new.”

“In other words, you didn’t notice.”

“Frankly, Chief, I didn’t notice.”

Mason started to say something, caught himself, started the car, drove back toward the freeway, then suddenly pulled in to the curb.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Mason said, “Look at me, Della.”

She raised her eyes to his in surprise.

“That wasn’t like you,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me tell Locke to stick around. You could have held him until I had finished telephoning.”

“He’s hard to hold. When he gets an idea through his head he’s gone.”

Mason regarded her thoughtfully for several seconds, then said, “All right, come clean.”

“On what?”

“His departure.”

She was silent. For a moment she tried to meet his eyes, then hastily averted her own.

“What were you doing?” Mason asked.

She smiled wanly and said, “I was practicing law.”

“Doing what?”

“Practicing law. I thought I knew the answer and I thought it was an answer you didn’t want to give him. He kept asking me what he could do, so I told him.”

“Which was what?” Mason asked, his voice cold.

“They’re in love,” Della Street said. “They’d been wanting to get married. Mosher Higley prevented them. Then after Mosher Higley’s death it wouldn’t have looked exactly right for—”

“In other words, you told them to get married. Is that it?” Mason asked.

“That’s it,” she said. “I told him if he married her there was no power on earth that could make him testify; that if he didn’t marry her they could force the testimony from him and the fact that he was in love with her would make it all the more damaging.”

Mason was silent for several seconds.

“Angry?” she asked.

“No,” Mason said, grinning. “You did about the only thing you could have done, but I hope the Bar Association Committee on the Unauthorized Practice of Law doesn’t get hold of you, young lady.”

She smiled. “Gosh, I’m glad you aren’t mad, Chief, but he had put you in an impossible position. Once he told you about finding the cyanide and knowing that there were four tablets missing... well, no matter what you did after that you’d be vulnerable. After all, he wasn’t your client. He’s a witness. He told you a very material fact. If you had tried to suppress that fact or if you had told him not to tell the police you’d have been in an impossible position legally. I know enough law to know that.

“I also know that if he ever gets on the stand and tells his story, the jury will convict Nadine Farr. They’ll hate to do it because John Locke seems such a nice young fellow, but the district attorney will point out that after all the greatest kindness the jury can do the young lover will be to keep him from marrying a murderess.

“So when he told me that he had one hunch, one place where he thought he could locate Nadine, that if she was there the police wouldn’t be looking there and that if he could find her there the police wouldn’t locate him, I... well, I told him that you quite probably wouldn’t want to be put in the position of telling him so but that if he and Nadine managed to get across to Yuma and got married before the authorities picked them up they couldn’t force him to testify against her and in all probability the case would blow up.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “you know what the newspapers will do. They’ll feature statements by the police and the district attorney. It will look as though Nadine was guilty of murder and they covered it up by a hasty marriage.”

“I know,” Della Street said. “It will take them a long while to live it down, but if she’s convicted of murder and sent to prison it would take even longer for her to live it down, in case she ever got out. And by the time she got out, her youth would be gone, her life would be gone, and her lover would be gone. John Locke would eat his heart out for a few years and then some sympathetic girl would place his poor little aching head on her bosom, gently stroke his hair back from his forehead, sympathize with him, offer to be a sister to him and wind up being his wife.”

“In other words, you don’t think he loves her enough to wait,” Mason said.

“He does now,” she told him, “but who can stand the strain of years of waiting? Think of all the competition there is in the matrimonial market. Some smart little babe will be just waiting to dish up the sympathetic sisterly approach.”

“All right,” Mason said. “I’m glad you did it, Della. If we’d been able to locate her, I’d probably have suggested either Yuma or Las Vegas and a marriage.”

“Well, you didn’t suggest anything of the sort,” Della Street said. “Your conscience is absolutely clear. I told him that as a lawyer you probably wouldn’t want to suggest that he marry the defendant in order to keep from testifying against her, but that if he acted on an impulse and went ahead and married the girl he couldn’t be put on the stand as a witness against her.”

Mason said, “Okay. I’ve got a line on Jackson Newburn. Let’s go see what he has to say.”

“I’ll bet he puts on an act of righteous indignation and denies he was anywhere near Nadine,” Della Street said.

“He already has, to Paul Drake, over the phone,” Mason told her.

“Suppose it’s a case of mistaken identity?” Della Street asked.

“In that case I’m going to lead with my chin.”

“You don’t think—?”

“No. I think Jackson Newburn is a cool, polished liar.”

“And that you can break him down?”

“I can try.”

Mason drove the car out to the Wildcat Club on West Adams Street.

“Want a witness?” Della Street asked as he parked the car.

“I want one,” Mason told her, “but I can probably accomplish a lot more without one. Sit in the car, Della, and hold the fort.”

The Wildcat Exploration and Development Club was in a house which some thirty years ago had been an elegant mansion. But the growth of the city had surrounded it, and others as fine, with businesses and apartments. Finally the tenants had moved away, the houses had yielded to pressure and been given over to millinery shops, cleaning establishments, dancing academies, business colleges and similar activities.

The Wildcat Club had purchased one of these mansions and, finding it ideally suited for their purposes, had completely renovated the building so that it stood out as a bright spot against the drab background of once proud houses, now badly in need of paint, awaiting the inevitable end in somber disarray.

Mason ran up the steps to the wide, illuminated porch, and rang the bell. A colored attendant in livery opened the door. Mason stated his errand.

“Just a moment,” the man said. “I’ll see if he’s here.”

He went back in and closed the door.

Mason waited.

Some two minutes later the door opened. A slender, well-knit man in the middle thirties, with gray penetrating eyes, and the quick step of an athlete, extended his hand.

“Mason?” he asked.

“That’s right. You’re Newburn?”

“Right.”

They shook hands.

“You’ll pardon me,” Newburn said, “if I don’t invite you in. There are quite a few club members here and you’re rather well known. The interview might be... misconstrued.”

“That’s quite all right,” Mason said. “I have my car parked at the curb. We can talk there.”

“Are you alone?”

“My secretary is with me. I—”

“Well then, let’s move over here to the corner of the porch. It’s as good a place as any.”

Newburn, without waiting for Mason’s acquiescence, walked quickly over to the far corner of the porch away from the direct illumination of the light. He turned back toward Mason.

“I had rather an annoying experience tonight.”

“Yes?” Mason asked.

“Someone on the phone, some detective agency or other, insisted that I’d been with Nadine Farr earlier in the evening.”

“You found that embarrassing?” Mason asked.

“Let’s say that I found it annoying.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t with her.”

“You know her?”

“Naturally.”

“Is there any reason why you should be annoyed at the suggestion that you had been talking with her?”

“Let’s get this straight, Mason,” Newburn said. “I’m married. My wife is broad-minded, intelligent and attractive, but she’s feminine and human. She has an idea that Nadine Farr wouldn’t be at all averse to having an affair with me. There’s absolutely no foundation for any such feeling on my wife’s part, but it exists. Therefore any insinuation that I was with Nadine Farr this afternoon or evening would be exceedingly annoying. I don’t know who employed the detective who made that insinuation, but if any such statement is made in the presence of witnesses, publicized or given to the press, I intend to sue whoever is responsible. Do I make myself plain?”

“Quite.”

“Very well. Under those circumstances I’m perfectly willing to answer questions so that I can clear up any misunderstanding, but I have warned you about my position.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “if I make the statement to anyone that you were with Nadine Farr, you’ll sue me for damages?”

“I’ll brand the statement as false and in the event that statement causes me any embarrassment at home I’ll... oh, what’s the use, Mason? You’re a lawyer. You understand the situation. I’m trusting to your discretion.”

“All right,” Mason said. “There are no witnesses here, just you and me. Now, were you with Nadine Farr or not?”

“Definitely not.”

“Did she telephone you this afternoon?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you learn in any way that she was at a motel at the beach known as the High-Tide Motel?”

Newburn’s laugh was the laugh of one who brushes aside an absurd statement. “Of course not, Mason,” he said. “Good heavens, don’t let these detective agencies fool you by turning in these thoroughly cockeyed reports. You’ve had enough experience to know that those operatives always try to send in reports that’ll lead to more work. They find out what the client wants and—”

“The manager of the motel,” Mason interrupted, “said that a young man who answered your description drove up to the motel in a two-tone Oldsmobile, that Nadine got in the car and the man drove away.”

“That Olds is a popular car,” Newburn said. “You’ll find thousands of them registered around here, and I’ll bet there are several hundred thousand people who answer my general description.”

“And,” Mason went on, as though there had been no interruption, “the manager said she saw the driver of the car turn in at a service station just down the block. Now then, the records of the service station show that someone who was driving your car and using your credit card stopped in for gasoline, and the signature on the delivery slip seems to be your signature.”

Mason stopped talking.

Jackson Newburn looked at him in speechless consternation.

Mason lit a cigarette.

When the silence had lasted for a good thirty seconds, Newburn said, “Who else knows this, Mason?”

“I know it,” Mason said, “the detective agency that I retained knows it, and the police will know it when they interview the manager of the motel.”

“Damn!” Newburn exclaimed in complete exasperation.

Mason lifted his eyebrows.

“I’m cursing my own stupidity in stopping in at that service station. I had no idea I was being watched.”

“Managers of motels get a little curious about attractive young women who register alone and then are met by well-dressed men driving high-priced cars,” Mason told him.

Newburn snapped his fingers two or three times in quick exasperation.

“Cigarette?” Mason asked.

He shook his head.

“Well?” Mason inquired after a while.

“I’m thinking.”

“That may not be the right thing to do.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “You’re trying to think of a story that will satisfy me and give you an out. Don’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because a story which might satisfy me might not satisfy the police — not in the long run. And if they catch you trying to cover up something then the fat will be in the fire.”

Newburn said, “The truth unfortunately is rather awkward.”

Mason said, “Get this straight. You’re dealing with a murder case. No matter how awkward the truth is, you can’t fabricate a situation that will meet all of the requirements. You can’t get a falsehood that will dovetail in with all of the facts. Sooner or later all of the other facts will be known. If your story doesn’t dovetail you’ll have to change it. If you change it under pressure the truth will then be ten times more awkward.”

Newburn said, “Nadine wanted help.”

“Financial?” Mason asked.

“She didn’t say so.”

“What kind of help?”

Newburn again snapped his fingers in quick nervousness.

“Relax,” Mason told him. “A lie will simply get you in deeper.”

“I don’t like to be accused of lying,” Newburn said coldly. “For your information, Mr. Mason, I don’t lie.”

“You tried to lie to me a minute ago. You lied to my detective, and you’re frantically trying to think up a good lie right now, Newburn.”

The lawyer’s voice was impersonal, patient, tolerant and completely without antagonism.

Jackson Newburn squared his shoulders, looked up at the lawyer’s granite-hard features, then laughed nervously.

“Well, I did lead with my chin that time, didn’t I? The fact remains, Mason, that I’m not accustomed to lying and—”

Mason said, “You’re an athlete of some sort. What do you do? Play tennis?”

“How did you know?”

“The swing of your shoulders, the way you step around. How good are you?”

“Pretty good.”

“Tournaments?”

“Sometimes.”

“Win?”

“Not lately. I’ve been too busy to keep in practice.”

“That’s the point I was going to bring out,” Mason said.

“What?”

“You have to keep in practice to remain a good tennis player.”

“Well?”

“You haven’t had much practice lying,” Mason said. “It takes a hell of a lot of practice to make a good liar, one good enough to fool the police and the newspaper reporters in a murder case.”

“I see,” Newburn said after a moment.

Mason waited, patiently smoking the cigarette.

Newburn said, “All right, Mason, I’ll give it to you straight. I’ll ask you to keep my remarks in confidence. I—”

“I’m not keeping any confidences,” Mason said. “I’m representing my client. I’m making no promises.”

“Then I can’t tell you.”

“Because I won’t promise to keep a confidence?”

“Yes.”

“The police won’t promise to keep a confidence,” Mason told him. “The newspaper reporters won’t promise to keep a confidence.”

Newburn thought that over.

Mason ground out the end of his cigarette on his heel, tossed it away.

“Well?” he asked.

Newburn said, “I always liked Nadine — not the way my wife thinks, but I liked her. She’s a good kid and she was getting a raw deal from Mosher Higley.

“Mosher was my wife’s relative. He was no relative of mine. My wife was his only relative. Higley had property. I’m not mercenary or commercial but I’d be a damn fool if I didn’t appreciate the fact that my wife was his only heir.

“The fact remains that Higley was terribly mean to Nadine. I sympathized with Nadine. Sue — that’s my wife — didn’t. I think in the back of Sue’s mind was the fear that Nadine might get her hooks into Mosher and... well, get a larger share under the will.

“There’s some scandal about Nadine’s birth. She’s an illegitimate child. Mosher Higley knew her background. He was friendly with John Locke’s family. He didn’t want Nadine and John Locke to marry.”

“Why?” Mason asked.

“Because he knew Nadine was illegitimate and he knew that when that came out Locke’s family wouldn’t stand for it. I think perhaps in the long run the old codger was trying to do Nadine a good turn. He knew that she had come here, that she was making friends and... I guess he didn’t want that old family skeleton to come out.”

“Did Nadine know she was illegitimate?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Was Mosher Higley her father?”

Newburn hesitated a moment, then said, “No.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Go on. Tell me your story.”

“Damn it, I hate to do this,” Newburn said.

“You’ve made that very manifest,” Mason told him.

“All right,” Newburn blurted, “when I learned that Nadine was in trouble and I learned that she’d made that confession, I — You see, Mosher Higley was dead, and, while Cap’n Hugo was there in the house, the actual title to the house was vested in us under Higley’s will. Sue and I were there quite a bit and—”

“Go on,” Mason said. “I don’t know how much time we’ve got. You’ve squirmed and twisted and wiggled — now for heaven’s sake tell me the truth. You’ve started, so cut out the preliminaries and get to the point.”

“All right,” Newburn said. “I knew that she was supposed to have told the doctor while she was under the influence of dope something about having given Mosher Higley some cyanide tablets. I don’t know how much she told him under the dope or how much came later, but I understood she’d simply taken the remaining tablets and afterwards she’d cut open shotgun shells and thrown both of them in the lake and... well, I picked up a partially filled bottle of those chemical sweetening tablets there at the house, dumped in some shot, drove out and threw the bottle in Twomby’s Lake.

“Then I left word that I had to see Nadine at the earliest possible moment. I tried several times to get in touch with her but my wife was keeping an eagle eye on me. I did get word to Nadine to call me the very first chance she had. She called two or three times and since Sue was there, I stalled it off as a wrong number. It wasn’t until my wife went out to see you that I had my chance to contact Nadine.”

“When did you throw this bottle in the lake?” Mason asked.

“Last night.”

“No one saw you?”

“No one.”

“No fingerprints?”

“I was very careful to avoid leaving any fingerprints on the bottle.”

“Where did you get the bottle and the tablets?”

“We use that same sugar substitute. My wife watches her calories very closely. In fact, it was through talking with her that Mosher Higley discovered this sugar substitute.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said.

“Well, I naturally had to get hold of Nadine and tell her that everything was all right, that she didn’t need to worry, to let them go ahead and search for the bottle, and when they found it they’d find there was nothing but harmless pills in it. That would kill her confession.”

“You told her that?”

“Yes.”

“And what happened?”

“Then I found out that the police had already recovered the bottle and the heat was off. Damn it, Mason, if you ever repeat this to anyone, if... but that’s the story.”

“All right,” Mason said. “I’ll give you the rest of the story. The police made another search. They found a second bottle. It was filled with cyanide tablets and shot. The heat’s back on. They’re looking for Nadine. When they find her they’ll arrest her and charge her with murder. The police think I’m responsible for the bottle that was tossed out in the lake with the harmless tablets in it.”

“My God, Mason,” Newburn said, “if the story of what I did comes out it will ruin my marriage. Sue will divorce me like that.” Newburn snapped his fingers in front of Mason’s face.

“The police are going to interview you,” Mason said. “What are you going to tell them?”

“I’m going to lie to them. I’ll tell them something. I’ll work up a story.”

“You can’t do it,” Mason said.

Newburn, suddenly angry, said, “Damn it, Mason, you talked me into telling the truth by telling me I couldn’t do it I... I don’t have to tell them that. I—”

“You can’t get away with it,” Mason said. “You—”

“Now just a minute,” Newburn interrupted. “You’re Nadine’s lawyer. You’re in this thing. You say the police think you tossed that bottle out there. Well—”

“Go on,” Mason said. “Follow that line of thinking to its logical conclusion and you’ll have your neck in a noose.”

“The hell with you,” Newburn said. “You’re advising me for your own interests. If the police think you tossed that other bottle out there, that... that takes me off the spot. They’d rather have something on you than on me.”

“And you’d like it that way?” Mason asked.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Newburn said. “My wife is a congenial companion. On the whole I’m happy. She’s just inherited some property that’s lousy with oil. You’re looking out for your interests. I’m going to start looking out for my interests.”

Newburn started walking toward the front door of the clubhouse.

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “You—”

“To hell with you,” Newburn told him. “I’ll get a lawyer of my own.”

He jerked open the door, went inside and slammed it shut.

Mason hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked down the steps to the car where Della Street was waiting.

“Well?” Della Street asked.

“Now,” Mason told her, “I wish I’d had a witness.”

“What did he say?” she asked.

Mason started the motor and spun the car into a U-turn.

“The last thing he said was all that counts,” he told her.

“And that was?”

“That I could go to hell, and that he was getting a lawyer to represent him.”

“Well,” Della Street asked, “what does he have to conceal?”

Mason said, “He’s the one who fixed up the bottle with the sugar substitute tablets and threw it out in Twomby’s Lake last night.”

“Chief!” she exclaimed, her voice triumphant “He admitted it?”

“He did to me. It’s the last time he’ll ever admit it,” Mason said. “He’ll get a lawyer and he’ll He like hell on the witness stand.”

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“Now,” Mason said, “we can eat.”

Della Street thought over the full significance of what had happened, then, after a moment, said dejectedly, “Now I don’t want to eat.”

Chapter Twelve

It was nearly midnight. Della Street, dark circles under her eyes, sat at her desk watching Mason apprehensively.

Mason was pacing the office floor. He had been pacing the floor with rhythmic regularity ever since their return from a cheerless dinner, into which two cocktails had failed to inject any warmth. Della Street had hardly touched her steak and Mason had eaten with the abstract disinterest of a condemned man partaking of his last meal.

Mason stopped his pacing. “Go on home, Della.”

She shook her head. “Not until we hear.”

Mason looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter of twelve. The police have been staked out at John Locke’s apartment all evening. By ten-thirty they began to suspect that he’d given them the slip. By eleven-thirty they were sure of it. They’re taking steps as of now.”

“What sort of steps?” Della Street asked.

“Look at it the way the police will,” Mason said. “They’ll know Nadine is missing, that John Locke is missing. They’ll suspect that John Locke might be a witness against her. They’ll begin to take measures to see that his testimony is protected.”

“In other words, you mean that they’ll anticipate John and Nadine are getting married?”

“The police aren’t fools,” Mason said. “That idea is in their minds right now. It probably occurred to them at least an hour ago.”

“What can they do?”

“Plenty.”

“What?”

“For one thing they can cover the state line checking stations. They can put out a broadcast in Las Vegas and Yuma. The only chance John had of marrying Nadine was to have chartered a plane and got to Yuma before the officers missed him.”

Della Street, seeming close to tears, said, “That’s what comes of my interfering. I didn’t think far enough. If I’d waited and let you tell him, you’d have told him to get a plane and—”

Mason said, “A lawyer isn’t supposed to take steps to suppress evidence.”

“Well, you could have told him indirectly. I keep thinking that we’ll hear any minute. Oh, I hope they made it.”

Mason resumed pacing the floor.

“Paul Drake will know?” Della asked.

“Paul Drake’s sitting right on top of everything,” Mason said. “He’ll know what happens.”

“Chief,” she said, “how many tablets were in that bottle of cyanide the police uncovered?”

“We don’t know,” Mason said. “The police aren’t taking us into their confidence — not as yet.”

“When will we know?”

“If Hamilton Burger is smart we’ll know when the case comes to trial.”

“You think it’ll come to trial?”

“It’ll come to trial.”

“Even if Nadine and John get married?”

Mason nodded.

“But if they do get married, if John can’t testify, then you can beat the case?”

Mason said, “There’s something wrong somewhere. We have too many cyanide tablets. Remember that the police recovered one bottle from the lake. John dumped one bunch of tablets down the toilet — at least he says he did. That makes two bottles of cyanide tablets. Then we have one bottle of sugar substitute tablets that was thrown out in the lake. That’s three bottles altogether, one of them containing harmless tablets, two containing cyanide.”

“But Jackson Newburn threw that bottle of sugar substitute out in the lake—”

“And he’s going to deny it,” Mason said. “The police would like to pin that on me. They won’t be very tough with Jackson Newburn — if he can think up a nice story to tell the police about how it happened he was down at the High-Tide Motel to meet Nadine.”

“But can he do that, Chief? Can he tell a lie that won’t have loose ends you can pick up?”

Before Mason could answer, the telephone rang sharply.

Della Street snatched it up. “Hello. Yes, Paul.”

The receiver made squawking noises.

Mason, standing by the corner of the desk, anxiously watching Della Street, needed no words to tell him what had happened. He saw the dismay on her face.

“Oh, Paul,” she said chokingly. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

Mason walked over to the hat closet, took his hat and moved over to the light switch.

“All right, I’ll tell him,” Della Street said tearfully and hung up.

“Paul wants us to stop by his office,” she said. “They caught Nadine and John Locke halfway to Yuma. The damn fool was driving his own car. The police had the license number. Police are triumphant. They have given a statement to the press.”

Della Street came toward Mason.

Mason clicked the light switch, circled Della Street’s waist with his arm, let her cry on his shoulder, there in the warm darkness of the law office.

Chapter Thirteen

Paul Drake entered Mason’s private office shortly after noon, greeted Della and tossed the early editions of the newspapers on Mason’s desk.

“How bad is it?” Mason asked without looking at the papers.

“They really went to town,” Drake said. “Hamilton Burger has been strictly ethical. He has smugly refused to make any comment, but Sergeant Holcomb of the Homicide Squad was fortunately available and he made a statement.”

“In Hamilton Burger’s office?” Mason asked.

“In Hamilton Burger’s office, in the presence of a quote beaming Hamilton Burger, who was seen unconsciously nodding his head from time to time unquote.”

“How very interesting,” Mason said. “How bad is it?”

“It couldn’t be worse. Sergeant Holcomb stated that he had handled enough homicide cases in which Perry Mason was the attorney so that ingenious attempts to throw him off the trail were almost routine. The phony bottle of evidence with the sugar substitute pills didn’t fool the police for a minute.

“They realized that Nadine must have secured cyanide from the laboratory in which John Locke was working, so when John Locke failed to show up at his apartment, police started a thorough investigation. They found that John Locke had been met at his favorite restaurant by a man who answered the description of Perry Mason.

“By ten o’clock, when police found that it was impossible to locate either Nadine Farr or John Locke, the versatile Sergeant Holcomb furnished the answer. Establishing roadblocks on the Las Vegas highway and the Yuma highway, the police managed to locate the eloping couple just outside of Indio. It wasn’t even necessary for them to use the roadblock because John Locke was driving his own car and the police had secured the description of that car, together with its license number, and had alerted the highway patrol.”

“How clever,” Mason said sarcastically.

“Oh, the boys are really basking in the sunlight of their own self-approval,” Drake said. “It’s nauseating. There are pictures of a glowing district attorney who adheres to professional ethics by making no comment. There are pictures of a glowing Sergeant Holcomb smoking a big black cigar. There are pictures of the tearful couple as they were apprehended on their way to Yuma to be married.”

“Modesty never was one of Sergeant Holcomb’s virtues,” Mason said.

“Notice how nicely Hamilton Burger beams,” Drake said.

“Let him beam,” Mason said. “What about Jackson Newburn — anything?”

“There’s silence, a complete unfathomable silence,” Drake said. “You want to read this bunch of stuff?”

“Not now,” Mason told him. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Paul. We’ve had a knockout punch. We’re down for the count of nine. We’re going to get up and we’re going to go on fighting, but it hurts.”

“You’re damn right it hurts,” Drake admitted.

“What about Nadine’s background?” Mason asked. “You said you had the dope on it.”

Drake said, “This whole thing goes back some twenty-five years to a time when Nadine Farr’s mother was employed by Mosher Higley as a confidential secretary.”

“Good heavens,” Della Street exclaimed, “then you mean that Nadine Farr may really be the daughter of Mosher Higley?”

“Not so fast, not so fast,” Drake warned. “You’re getting a couple of carts before the horse, and getting the wrong horse into the harness.”

Mason grinned. “Tell it your own way, Paul, but let’s have it fast.”

Drake said, “Mosher Higley and a man by the name of Wesley Mann Jennings were in partnership in a construction company. Rose Farr was the confidential secretary and office manager. She carried figures in her head that it would take the bookkeeping department half an hour to dig out. She could answer the phone, reach decisions, relay messages, and get things done in a matter of seconds. She knew more about the business than anyone in it.”

“Don’t condense that part of it, Paul,” Della Street said. “I like to hear you dwell on this paragon of secretarial efficiency. I find that secretaries are uniformly underestimated.”

“This one wasn’t,” Drake said. “Both Higley and Jennings appreciated her. I think both were in love with her. Higley was a fourflusher. Wesley Jennings was married. Rose Farr liked Wesley. But someone tipped off Wesley’s wife. The latter used that as a means of trying to grab all of Jennings’ property, forcing him to sell his interest in the partnership and all that.

“You know how those things go. When a marriage splits up and a man tries to tell his story it sounds pretty drab because he can’t remember all of the little things that come up in daily married life. But when a woman gets on the witness stand she remembers every time the husband found a button off his shirt and kicked over the dressing table in protest.”

Della Street, smiling, said, “You may condense that part, Paul.”

“Hell, it’s the truth,” Drake said. “Any woman can take just two months of an ordinary marriage and, by keeping a notebook and embellishing things a little bit, make a man sound like a perfect brute.

“Well, anyway, Wesley Jennings’ wife turned out to be a bitch. She wanted money, lots of money and more money. She wanted to force a dissolution of the partnership and wanted Jennings to liquidate everything so she could get it in the form of cash.

“So Jennings stalled things along as best as he could and he and Rose Farr worked together trying to raise as much cash as they could in a secret fund so that he could offer his wife an attractive cash settlement. Rose Farr, knowing the business the way she did, was helping Wesley Jennings all she could. They were, of course, planning to get married just as soon as Mrs. Jennings would make a property settlement and get a divorce. That was another lever that Mrs. Jennings was using to get more and more cash.”

“Go on,” Mason said. “What happened? In view of the fact that Nadine bears her mother’s name I am assuming—”

“You’re assuming right,” Drake said. “Wesley Jennings shot himself. Seven and a half months later Nadine was born.”

“Why in the world did he commit suicide and leave Rose Farr to face a situation like that?” Della Street asked.

“Well,” Drake said, “when you look at it one way it’s reasonable. It could have been that when Rose Farr found she was going to have a baby, Wesley Jennings knew he was licked. His wife was just looking for something that would give her a good excuse to nail a charge of adultery on top of mental cruelty.”

“What happened after that?” Della Street asked.

“Rose Farr left the business. No one knew what happened to her. She had her baby, then died after a few months.

“Now here’s the point, Perry. Rose Farr wrote a letter. She sealed it. She left it with a bank to be delivered to her daughter, Nadine, when Nadine reached her eighteenth birthday. No one knows what was in that letter. It was delivered to Nadine. In all probability Rose Farr took that opportunity to tell Nadine that she was an illegitimate child, but she also told her some things that caused Nadine to do a lot of thinking.

“Within thirty days after Nadine had that letter she looked up Mosher Higley. Higley thereupon took Nadine in to live with him and started giving her an education. There was no affection between them. In fact, Higley hated her, and the way things look now he probably feared her.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “there was something in that letter that changed the entire picture.”

Drake nodded. “There must have been.”

Mason’s voice was speculative. “It could have been that Higley had cheated his partner’s estate in settling up the partnership. It could have been that there was something a little fishy about Wesley Jennings’ death. Perhaps it wasn’t suicide. Perhaps Higley was the one who pulled the trigger and made it look like suicide. Hang it, Paul, I’ve got to find out what was in that letter.”

“You and the district attorney,” Paul said.

Mason said, “This is a case where we don’t seem to be able to get any of the breaks, Paul. That letter can’t be used as evidence to prove any facts we might want uncovered, but it can be used against Nadine to establish a motive.

“Look at the thing from the viewpoint of the district attorney. Here’s an illegitimate child, the offspring of an illicit affair. She reaches the age of eighteen. She opens a letter from her mother. There is information in that letter which enables her to go to Mosher Higley and blackmail him.

“If Mosher Higley were alive we could at least attempt to prove the truth of any facts stated in that letter. But now we can’t go into those facts. But that letter can establish motivation.

“From the district attorney’s viewpoint, Mosher Higley had no affection for Nadine Farr. She had no affection for him. She uncovered information that enabled her to move in on him. She forced him to send her to school and college. She lived in his house. John Locke fell in love with Nadine. Mosher Higley was a friend of the Locke family. He didn’t want John Locke to fall for an illegitimate child who was also a blackmailer. He tried to be a gentleman. He didn’t go to Locke’s family and tell them the story. He simply told Nadine to get out. So a few days later Mosher Higley gets cyanide of potassium in his chocolate and Nadine sobs out a confession to a doctor that it was all a horrible mistake.”

Paul Drake pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. “And how the hell can you counter anything like that, Perry?”

Mason shook his head. “If I could think of the answer to that, Paul, I’d be more than a lawyer. I’d be a wizard.”

“Can the police get all that information?” Drake asked.

“You got it,” Mason said.

Drake thought that over, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose the same sources of information are open to them if they think about it.”

“They’ll think about it, Paul.”

“But,” Drake said, “you’ll have one advantage — you can get Nadine to tell you what was in that letter.”

“So can the police, Paul.”

“How?”

Mason put his two fists together and twisted them as though wringing out a wet rag.

Chapter Fourteen

Mason sat in the visitors’ room at the jail. On the other side of the heavily meshed screen, Nadine Farr, looking complacent and more beautiful than ever, regarded Mason with calm, thoughtful eyes.

“Are you going to put me on the witness stand?” she asked.

Mason studied her thoughtfully. “Let’s get it straight, Nadine. If I put you on the witness stand, you’re going to have to tell about the letter your mother left for you.”

She was silent for several thoughtful seconds.

“So,” Mason said, “I’m going to have to know what was in that letter.”

She shook her head. “I told you I’d never tell that to anyone.”

“As your lawyer I’m going to have to know these things,” Mason told her.

Again she shook her head.

“Perhaps,” the lawyer went on, “you don’t appreciate just how desperate the situation is. Hamilton Burger is going to accuse you of blackmail. He’s going to claim that you blackmailed Mosher Higley into giving you a home, into giving you an education, into making you a residuary legatee under his will.”

“And then what?” she asked.

“And then the jury will be so prejudiced against you that if there is any evidence whatever that you poisoned Higley they’ll return a verdict of first-degree murder.”

“So what do we do?”

“So we counter,” Mason said patiently, “by showing them that you didn’t blackmail Mosher Higley.”

She met his eyes steadily. “Has it ever occurred to you that the reason I haven’t tried to explain what happened is that the district attorney is right?”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

“I blackmailed him,” she said, “and I’m only sorry I didn’t blackmail him for more.”

Mason glanced around apprehensively to where the matron was standing at the far end of the room.

“Get that bitterness out of your voice,” he said.

She said, “Mosher Higley was a murderer. He murdered my father and because of what happened he sent my mother to her death.”

“What happened to the letter your mother left for you?”

“I burned it.”

“What was in it?” Mason asked.

She said, “My mother tried her best to explain to me what had happened, to explain the reason that I had been born out of wedlock, to tell me the awful handicap that she had wished on me. That was what she tried to tell me. She tried to explain. But in between the lines I found some clues that I kept thinking over.

“At the time my father was supposed to have killed himself, the affairs of the partnership were involved in a scandal over the construction of a big schoolhouse. Mosher Higley had manipulated things so that my father had the responsibility for that job, but actually the payoff had been made by Mosher Higley. My father was supposed to have committed suicide when he learned that my mother was pregnant and that his wife was going to subpoena my mother as a witness in a divorce action. My father didn’t commit suicide. Mosher Higley killed him when my father faced Mosher Higley with proof that Higley was the one who was responsible for the crooked deal on the schoolhouse job. Mosher made it look like suicide.”

“Go on,” Mason said dryly.

She said, “Mosher Higley didn’t know what was in the letter my mother had left for me. He did know she had left a letter with the bank to be delivered to me when I was eighteen. I found out he was desperately afraid of what might be in that letter. He wondered how much my mother knew. I ran a bluff. I told Mosher Higley there was evidence in that letter that would prove that he had killed my father, that he had manipulated the affairs of the partnership afterwards so that he had cheated the estate out of a fortune. I threatened to hire detectives to prove that he was a murderer, that he had taken money which rightfully should belong to me as my father’s daughter, even if I was illegitimate.”

“Keep talking,” Mason said.

“That’s all there was to it. He agreed that I was to come and live with him in his house, that he was to finish my education which had been pretty sketchy. Believe me, the world had been pretty rough to me. I was an orphan and a bastard and I took all the hard knocks. I wanted an education. After that I didn’t care what happened.”

“You hated Mosher Higley?”

“I hated his guts and he hated me. We maintained an outward semblance of affection because I was living there in the house with him and I had certain duties as sort of a sublimated housekeeper. Believe me, I paid for everything I received. But the point is, I received it. I made the best settlement I could. It wasn’t the sort of settlement I wanted but it was the only way I could go ahead and get an education.”

“Then when the district attorney intimates that you blackmailed Mosher Higley,” Mason said, “he—?”

“He’s telling the absolute truth,” Nadine Farr said.

“If only you had come to me when you opened your mother’s letter and had let me handle things as your attorney,” Mason groaned.

“You couldn’t have done any better than I did,” she interrupted. “Remember there wasn’t the faintest shred of evidence. All there was was a suspicion. I had to run a bluff. I was free to use blackmail. You couldn’t have gone that far.”

Mason was thoughtfully silent for a few moments, then he said, “Not blackmail. I’d have put detectives to work and obtained proof.”

“You couldn’t. He was too smart. He’d covered his trail too well. But I knew how to frighten him and I did it. It was all right, for a while.

“Then he gradually came to a realization that I’d been bluffing. I don’t know what tipped him off, but he knew. So when John and I fell in love he played his trump card. He said I must get out of John’s life forever. He said if I didn’t disappear of my own volition he would tell John’s family all about my illegitimacy and that I was an adventuress, a blackmailer.”

Mason digested the information.

“Now then,” she said, “how does all that affect my case?”

“It makes it look as if you could have killed him.”

“That’s exactly the way I did feel. You’ve been saying I mustn’t lie to my attorney. All right, now I’ve told you the truth.”

Mason pushed back his chair, nodded to the matron.

“All right,” she said, “I guess that gesture of yours answers any questions I may have as to how much chance I stand in front of a jury.”

Mason’s face was granite-hard and utterly expressionless as he left the visiting room and faced the reporters who were waiting for him in the corridor.

“Well,” Mason asked, facing the exploding flash bulbs, “what do you want?”

“We want Nadine’s story,” one of the reporters said.

Mason’s smile was frosty. “You know you won’t get that. That will come out in court and not before.”

“All right,” one of the reporters said, “tell us about the case. What’s the situation? What’s going to be the position of the defense?”

“The position of the defense,” Mason said slowly and deliberately, “is that my client has been crucified upon a cross of coincidence. And that, gentlemen, is all you’re going to get out of me.”

Chapter Fifteen

The case of the People of the State of California versus Nadine Farr was a case which in the parlance of the newspaper world “had everything.”

The defendant was universally described by the press as dazzlingly beautiful. It was known that the man who was in love with her was going to be forced to testify against the woman he had been on the point of marrying when she was apprehended. It was known that the district attorney was going to try to prove that this demure and dazzling defendant was a cold-blooded blackmailer, that she had poisoned Mosher Higley when he had rebelled against further blackmail and had refused to permit an illegitimate child who had been blackmailing him to marry the son of one of his close friends.

The case, moreover, held legal thrills. It was generally conceded that Perry Mason, as attorney for the defense, had been caught in one of his spectacular and unorthodox tricks. The district attorney might have trouble proving that Mason had “planted” a bottle containing harmless tablets in place of the cyanide which had been thrown in the lake by the defendant, but the district attorney was certainly going to try. There was, moreover, the question of whether a tape-recorded confession made to a physician while the patient was under the influence of drugs could be received in evidence.

It was freely predicted in legal circles that in this case Mason’s defense didn’t have a leg to stand on. The only thing that he could hope to do was to conjure up an array of legal technicalities and by legal legerdemain and forensic ingenuity defeat the progress of justice.

Whether or not he would be able to accomplish this was the subject of considerable speculation. The odds were ten to one against him. He was, in the opinion of courthouse attaches, in the position of the pitcher that had gone to the well once too often.

And now Hamilton Burger was moving in for the kill.

The jurors had been qualified, empaneled and sworn. Hamilton Burger made an opening statement which was a masterpiece of sarcastic invective and which closed with the statement:

“You, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have doubtless read the statement of counsel for the defense made to the press that his client was crucified upon a cross of coincidence. The prosecution expects to prove that the defendant deliberately became a poisoner, a murderess, a blackmailer and became ensnared in the toils of her own iniquity.”

Hamilton Burger bowed to the jury and, turning, lumbered back to his seat at the counsel table for all the world like some huge, vindictive grizzly bear that had the power and the savagery to smash down all opposition.

“Does the defense wish to make a statement?” Judge Ashurst asked.

“Not at this time,” Mason said.

The judge turned to the district attorney. “Call your first witness.”

“Dr. Medley P. Granby,” Hamilton Burger said.

Dr. Granby came forward and was sworn.

“Stipulate to the doctor’s qualifications as a physician and surgeon subject to the right of cross-examination,” Mason said.

“Very well,” Hamilton Burger said. “Doctor, your full name is Dr. Medley Prosner Granby, and you are the physician who took care of Mosher Higley during his lifetime and during his last illness?”

“I am.”

“Did you see Mosher Higley as he was dying?”

“I arrived very shortly after Mosher Higley had expired.”

“What was his physical appearance at that time? What did you notice?”

“I noticed that there was a redness of the skin, that there had been a history of—”

“Just a moment,” Mason interrupted. “We object to any history so-called, on the ground that that is hearsay. I take it, Doctor, that you are now referring to something that was told you by nurses in charge of the case.”

“That is true.”

“That would be hearsay,” Judge Ashurst ruled. “Just confine yourself to the physical appearance.”

“I noticed a peculiar redness of the skin. I noticed that the man had evidently been drinking chocolate when he had the fatal—”

“Just a moment,” Mason said. “I move that that part of the answer may go out as being a conclusion of the witness and not responsive to the question. The fact that he had evidently been drinking chocolate is very definitely a conclusion of the witness.”

“This is an expert medical witness. He is entitled to give his opinion,” Hamilton Burger said.

“He can draw medical conclusions,” Mason said, “but he can’t become an expert on circumstantial evidence. He can tell what he saw. He can make medical deductions under proper circumstances.”

“Oh, if the Court please,” Hamilton Burger said, “this is very evidently a technicality.”

“The defendant serves notice,” Mason said, “that under the circumstances of this case the defendant intends to rely upon every technicality which the law gives for her protection. These things the prosecutor sneeringly refers to as technicalities are simply the safeguards that the law provides a defendant to prevent a defendant from being unjustly convicted. The defense intends to insist that none of these safeguards be ignored.”

“The motion of the defense is granted. The part about the decedent having evidently been drinking chocolate will be stricken,” Judge Ashurst ruled.

“Very well,” Hamilton Burger said with exasperation. “Just what did you see, Doctor? Now you understand the objection that has been raised by the defense. Tell us what you saw with your own eyes.”

“I saw Mosher Higley. He was my patient. He was dead. I noticed a certain redness of the skin. I saw fragments of a broken cup on the floor. I saw chocolate, or a liquid which I assumed to be hot chocolate because it smelled like chocolate, spilled on the floor and on the nightshirt which covered Mosher Higley.”

“Now then,” Hamilton Burger said, “were you present when the body of Mosher Higley was exhumed in accordance with an order of this Court?”

“I was.”

“Did you assist in performing a post-mortem on that body?”

“I did.”

“Did you as a result of that autopsy reach a conclusion as to the cause of death?”

“I did.”

“What was it?”

“I decided that Mosher Higley had died of poison.”

“Did you reach a conclusion as to the type of poison?”

“I did.”

“What was it?”

“Cyanide of potassium.”

“Cross-examine,” Burger said triumphantly.

Mason said, “Doctor, at the time you saw Mosher Higley you noted all of these symptoms that the district attorney has outlined?”

“I did.”

“You considered them carefully?”

“Well, no. I saw them. That is all I can say.”

“You didn’t consider them carefully?”

“Not at that time.”

“Why?”

“Because the full possible significance of those things had not as yet dawned upon me.”

“You were called as a physician?”

“Yes.”

“You knew the man was dead?”

“Yes.”

“You knew you were going to have to certify as to the cause of death?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore you examined the body and the surroundings for the purpose of determining the cause of death?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I made what I would call a cursory examination.”

“And as a result of that examination you reached a decision at that time as to the cause of death?”

“Well, I signed the death certificate.”

“Doctor, don’t avoid the question. I am asking you did you at that time reach a decision as to the cause of death?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you decided the man had died as the result of a coronary thrombosis, did you not?”

“I did.”

“And you signed the death certificate attributing that as the cause of death?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you now think you were mistaken when you signed that death certificate?”

“I do.”

“You now feel that Mosher Higley did not die as a result of coronary thrombosis?”

“I know he did not die as a result of coronary thrombosis.”

“You know, therefore, that you made a mistake when you decided that was the cause of death when you first saw him?”

“Yes, sir, and I want to tell you my reasons.”

“I’m not interested in your reasons at the present time,” Mason said. “I am asking you simply as a matter of fact whether you made a mistake, whether you reached an erroneous conclusion. You can answer either yes or no, either you did or you didn’t. Now did you reach an erroneous conclusion or did you not?”

“I did,” Dr. Granby said, his lips quivering with anger.

“Is it possible to bring about a coronary thrombosis by drinking chocolate?”

“Certainly not. A coronary thrombosis is an occlusion of the coronary artery by a clot of blood, shutting off the circulation and resulting in death.”

“As soon as you found Mosher Higley was dead you knew you were going to be called upon to sign a death certificate?”

“Naturally.”

“And therefore you looked around for the cause of death, did you not?”

“Well, in the manner that I usually do.”

“You mean that your usual manner is a careless, slipshod manner?”

“Certainly not.”

“You mean this usual manner was one not calculated to determine the cause of death?”

“Certainly not.”

“Do you want this jury to understand that you used your very best professional competency, skill, experience and judgment in determining the cause of death at that time?”

“Well, I am forced to admit that I overlooked the significance of the reddish tinge of the skin.”

“Do you want this jury to understand that at that time in the exercise of your solemn professional duty you used less than your best skill and competence?”

“Well, I reached an incorrect conclusion and that speaks for itself.”

“In other words, you didn’t do your best? Is that right?”

“I did my best.”

“You took into consideration all of the facts and circumstances?”

“Certainly.”

“Then what did you mean by stating that you didn’t take into consideration the redness of the patient’s skin?”

“Well, at the time I didn’t consider that had anything to do with the cause of death.”

“You noticed it?”

“Yes, I noticed it.”

“You considered it in connection with the other facts in the case for the purpose of determining the cause of death?”

“Well, I considered it.”

“And decided that it indicated a death by coronary thrombosis?”

“Definitely not. It was not an indication of death by coronary thrombosis, but was an indication of death by cyanide of potassium or carbon monoxide poisoning. That is one of the indications.”

“You noticed it at that time?”

“Yes.”

“And you considered it in connection with determining the cause of death?”

“Well, in a way.”

“And at the time that did not indicate to you the possibility of death by cyanide of potassium?”

“At the time, no.”

“Why?”

“Because at that time I hadn’t been advised of certain factors in the situation which later changed the entire aspect of the case.”

“You changed your opinion at a later date after you had been advised of those factors?”

“And after I had assisted in performing a post-mortem on the body after it had been exhumed.”

“And at that time you took into consideration the significance of the redness of the skin?”

“I did.”

“And that, as you have stated, was as a result of a history of the case which had subsequently been related to you and which appeared to be more significant?”

“In a way, yes.”

“So that you changed your opinion as to the cause of death because of what someone had told you?”

“No, sir. I did not.”

“You changed your opinion as to the significance of the redness of the skin because of what someone had told you.”

The doctor hesitated, looked helplessly at the district attorney. “I said that in view of the history of the case.”

“When you say the history of the case you are referring to what someone has told you?”

“Yes.”

“So you changed your opinion as the result of hearsay evidence?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You changed your opinion as to the significance of the redness of the skin because of hearsay evidence.”

“Well, yes. If you want to put it that way.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “That’s all, Doctor.”

“Just a minute,” Hamilton Burger said. “I have some questions on redirect which perhaps I should have asked. I rather expected they would have been covered on cross-examination. Doctor, why do you now say that Mosher Higley met his death as the result of cyanide of potassium?”

“Just a moment,” Mason said. “That question is objected to. It is not proper redirect examination. It should have been asked on direct examination. It is quite clear what happened here. The district attorney failed to bring out a part of his case because he felt that while I was cross-examining the witness the facts could be brought out with more telling effect by the witness. Having taken that gamble he is now bound by it.”

Judge Ashurst stroked his chin, seemed for the moment undecided,

“If I may explain, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said, “I—”

Judge Ashurst shook his head. “I think the situation speaks for itself, Mr. Prosecutor,” he said. “I think there is no question that counsel for the defense is correct insofar as his statement of the facts and of the rule of law is concerned. However, the function of this Court is to administer justice and not to act as a referee in a legal sparring match between counsel. It is, of course, a general practice for attorneys to lay traps for opposing counsel so that certain facts which may be of considerable significance can be brought out on cross-examination to the confusion of the cross-examiner. In this case there’s no question in the mind of the Court that the prosecution attempted to follow these tactics and the counsel for the defense was shrewd enough to avoid the trap.

“However, the Court is mindful of the fact that the examination of witnesses is entirely in the discretion of the Court, and as I stated before this is not a legal sparring match. This is an attempt to get at certain facts. This fact is a very significant fact, a very important fact. The Court is going to permit the witness to answer the question, but the Court warns you, Mr. Prosecutor, that in this case the technical rights of the defendant will be carefully protected. As counsel has so aptly stated, these so-called technicalities are the safeguards erected by the law of the land to protect the accused. The Court will overrule the objection. And the Court doesn’t want any more legal gymnastics in this courtroom. Now go ahead and answer the question, Doctor.”

Dr. Granby cleared his throat importantly and said, “I had originally concluded that the decedent probably died as the result of coronary thrombosis. My post-mortem examination showed there was no coronary thrombosis. Furthermore, my post-mortem failed to disclose any cause of death. The body had been embalmed. It therefore seemed a logical medical assumption that there had been a cause of death which must have been destroyed by the injection of embalming fluid. Cyanide of potassium is a deadly poison, all traces of which are destroyed by the injection of embalming fluid. The redness of the blood is a further indication of death by cyanide of potassium. Therefore, taking all of these factors into consideration, it is now my considered medical opinion that the decedent met his death because of poisoning by cyanide of potassium.”

“That’s all,” Hamilton Burger said. “You may cross-examine.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “the only reason that you now say the decedent died from poisoning by cyanide of potassium is that you can’t find any other cause of death?”

“In a way, that is true.”

“Are you familiar with the fact, Doctor, that in a certain percentage of cases, the best pathologists in the country are unable to find a cause of death?”

“Yes, but I don’t think the percentage is high.”

“What is the percentage?”

“I don’t think that is relevant to this case.”

“I do, Doctor. Please tell me what the percentage is.”

“It is a variable.”

“You mean it fluctuates between certain percentages?”

“Yes.”

“What are the percentage limits of fluctuation?”

“They depend on the skill of the pathologist.”

“I am assuming that the autopsy surgeon has the highest skill. Isn’t there a certain percentage of cases where medical science is unable to find any cause of death?”

“Well... yes, a certain percentage.”

“What is it?”

Dr. Granby shifted his position. “I don’t know.”

“Then if you don’t know it might be as high as ten per cent.”

“I don’t think it is. I am quite certain it is not.”

“But you don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“You do know that in a significant number of cases pathologists are unable to find a cause of death at the time of post-mortem examination?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you say that all of those cases were deaths due to cyanide of potassium?”

“Certainly not.”

“Yet in this case you have concluded that the man died of cyanide of potassium poisoning simply because you couldn’t find any other cause of death. Isn’t that right?”

“Well — that’s hardly a fair way to put it.”

“How else would you put it?” Mason said.

“Well, I have assumed that there must have been a cause of death and inasmuch as I couldn’t find a cause of death at the time of post-mortem, and inasmuch as the body had been embalmed, I assumed that the cause of death had been obscured by the embalming.”

“In other words, because you couldn’t find the cause of death you assumed the cause must have been obliterated by the embalming?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you do know that in cases where there has been no embalming whatever it is a medical fact that in a goodly percentage of these cases it is impossible to find the cause of death?”

“Not ten per cent, as you suggested.”

“How do you know it isn’t?”

“Well, I... I am assuming it isn’t. I think the percentage is far lower. I think it is around three to five per cent.”

“You are referring now to your own practice?”

“Yes. In cases where autopsies have been performed the percentage of deaths from undetermined causes is negligible.”

“In your own practice it is from three to five per cent?”

“Oh, call it that. I’m being generous with you in fixing those figures.”

“Now, in this particular case, simply because you were unable to find the cause of death and because the body had been embalmed you assumed the cause of death was some agency that must have been removed by the embalming fluid and therefore you assumed that it was the injection of cyanide of potassium?”

“Well, that’s rather an unfair way of putting it, but I’ll answer that question in the affirmative.”

“You have other cases where you have been unable to determine the cause of death before embalming?”

“Yes.”

“Three to five per cent, Doctor?”

“Well, yes.”

“Did you in those cases certify the cause of death as cyanide of potassium?”

“Don’t be absurd. Certainly not!”

“Have you ever certified any of those cases as having been caused by cyanide of potassium?”

“No.”

“You have then certified in those cases that the cause of death was unknown?”

“Well... no.”

“You didn’t know the cause of death,” Mason asked, “you were unable to find it?”

“That’s right.”

“Yet you didn’t so state in your certificate?”

“A death certificate, Mr. Mason, has to recite some cause of death. It is a general practice among medical men to have a certain blanket category which is listed as the cause of death when it is impossible to determine absolutely what was the cause of death.”

“In other words, when you can’t find a cause of death you simply draw on your imagination. Is that right?”

“Well, you have to put down some cause of death.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “So in those cases of yours where you weren’t able to find the cause of death you simply went ahead and filled in a cause of death anyway. Is that right?”

“In those cases, yes.”

“So in at least three per cent of your cases you deliberately falsify your death certificates?”

“I don’t falsify it.”

“It is incorrect?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet you state in the certificate that you do know?”

“All doctors do.”

“And you do?”

“Yes. Have it your own way.”

“This case was a similar case to all of those others except that in this case you have said it was a death by cyanide of potassium?”

“Well, this case is not exactly similar.”

“Why isn’t it similar?”

“Because there is evidence of the possibility of cyanide poisoning.”

“What evidence?”

“The color of the skin for one thing.”

“But you noticed that color of the skin at the time you signed the death certificate attributing the cause as coronary thrombosis, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“All right, what else was there?”

“Well, of course,” Dr. Granby blurted, “there is the confession of the defendant, her own admission—”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “Because it has been reported to you that statements made by the defendant indicated death by cyanide of potassium poisoning you have concluded that death must have been by cyanide of potassium.”

“Well, that was one of the reasons.”

“That’s the only significant reason you can bring out at this time, isn’t it, Doctor?”

“That and the fact that there was no other cause of death visible.”

“But you have just stated that in an appreciable percentage of deaths you haven’t been able to find any cause of death.”

“Well, yes.”

“But your certificate didn’t so state?”

“I gave a cause of death.”

“Despite the fact you couldn’t find the cause of death you signed a certificate stating that death was due to a certain cause?”

“That is the generally accepted medical practice.”

“That,” Mason said, with a tone of finality, “is all.”

Hamilton Burger whispered to his trial deputy. Apparently they were unhappy about the doctor’s testimony but didn’t know exactly how to try to repair the damage.

“Any further questions?” Judge Ashurst asked.

Hamilton Burger shook his head. “No,” he said, and his manner indicated that he realized his whispered conference had further weakened his case. “No further questions.”

Hamilton Burger’s next witness was Marilyn Bodfish, who, it turned out, was the day nurse who had been in charge of the case on the Saturday when Mosher Higley met his death. She testified that it was customary for the defendant, Nadine Farr, to “take over” at around noon on Saturday, giving the witness some time off; that on this particular Saturday it had been a sunny day and the witness had retired to a secluded place between the garage and a fence where there was a folding cot, and had been engaged in taking a sun bath when she had heard the’ emergency electric bell ringing in her bedroom which was on top of the garage; that she had hastily donned some clothes and hurried to the house, finding Mosher Higley in convulsions and gasping for air, that there was some retching; that there was a broken cup on the floor, that some chocolate had been spilled on the floor and that some chocolate had been spilled on his nightshirt; that she noticed at the time that the chocolate on the floor was still warm.

“Did you notice anything else?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“I noticed a certain odor.”

“What odor?”

“An odor of bitter almonds.”

“As a part of your training as a nurse did you study poisons?”

“I did.”

“Do you know the significance of the odor of bitter almonds?”

“It is the odor of cyanide of potassium.”

“And you detected that odor at that time?”

“I did.”

“Cross-examine,” Hamilton Burger said triumphantly.

“When did you first appreciate the significance of that odor?” Mason asked.

“I noticed it as soon as I was bending over the patient. I—”

“Answer my question,” Mason interrupted. “When did you first appreciate the significance of that odor?”

“Oh, later on, when I heard that there was a possibility of cyanide poisoning.”

“You were there in the room when Dr. Granby arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you at that time communicate to him the fact that you detected an odor of bitter almonds?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Dr. Granby tell you that he detected an odor of bitter almonds?”

“No, sir. There was no discussion about it.”

“Were you there when Dr. Granby signed the death certificate giving the cause of death as coronary thrombosis?”

“I was there when he announced that that was the cause of death.”

“Did you then suggest to him that perhaps there might have been some other cause?”

“Certainly not. It is not the function of a nurse to try and correct a doctor’s diagnosis.”

“Did you at that time think the diagnosis was wrong?”

“I—”

“Oh, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said, “this witness is not an expert medical witness. She is a nurse. She has had certain training. She can testify as to certain things. This question is not proper cross-examination.”

“Certainly it is proper cross-examination,” Mason said. “She is now testifying that at that time she noticed the odor of bitter almonds and that she knew the odor of bitter almonds was indicative of cyanide poisoning. It becomes important to know whether she pointed that out to the doctor, which she certainly would have done if she actually had noticed any significant odor, or whether she waited until the idea was put in her head by the police.”

“Now that is an unfair statement,” Hamilton Burger said. “There is no evidence that the idea was put in her head by the police.”

“You let me go ahead with this cross-examination and I’ll show that that’s where the idea came from,” Mason said.

“Now just a moment,” Judge Ashurst said, “this colloquy between counsel borders on misconduct on both sides. The witness was asked a question. It is true that the witness did not qualify on direct examination as being able to give an opinion as to the cause of death, but this question relates to her conduct at the time. The objection is overruled.”

“Did you point out to anyone at that time that you had detected the odor of bitter almonds?”

“No.”

“Did you at that time, prior to talking with the police or the district attorney, have any idea that the odor of bitter almonds had any significance whatever?”

“No.”

“Did you at that time think that the odor of bitter almonds was associated with cyanide?”

“Well... no, not at that time.”

“It wasn’t until afterward, when you were being questioned by the police, that they asked you if there wasn’t something that you could possibly think of that would indicate the presence of cyanide, that you made that statement?”

“Not by the police — by the prosecutor.”

“Oh, by Hamilton Burger himself,” Mason said, bowing to the district attorney. “That was when the matter first came to your mind, is that right?”

“Well, that’s the first time I reported it.”

“That’s the first time you appreciated the significance of what you had smelled?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Burger asked you if you hadn’t noticed something that would be indicative of poisoning by cyanide?”

“Well, yes.”

“And did Mr. Hamilton Burger further tell you that he understood the odor of bitter almonds was indicative of cyanide poisoning and ask you if you had detected that odor?”

“Yes.”

“That was before you told him you had smelled bitter almonds?”

“That brought it to my mind.”

“That was the first time that it was brought to your mind?”

“Yes.”

“And then you thought you had remembered it?”

“Then I remembered that I had smelled it.”

Mason smiled. “That’s all,” he said.

“That’s all,” Hamilton Burger snapped.

Hamilton Burger said, “If the Court please, the next witness is a hostile witness. However, it is necessary for us to call him. Dr. Logbert P. Denair, will you come forward and be sworn.”

Dr. Denair came forward, was sworn and testified to his qualifications as a physician and surgeon, his practice in psychiatry, the fact that he was acquainted with the defendant.

“Now then, on or about the fifteenth day of September of this year did the defendant consult you professionally?”

“Yes.”

“Did you at that time decide she was suffering from severe feelings of guilt?”

“Objected to,” Mason said, “as calling for a privileged communication, as betraying the confidential relationship existing between a doctor and a patient.”

Judge Ashurst thought for a minute, then said, “The objection is sustained.”

“Did you at that time suggest to the defendant that it would be advantageous if you should give her a so-called truth serum test?”

“Same objection,” Mason said.

“Same ruling.”

“Did you on or about the seventeenth of September administer a drug to the defendant?”

“I did.”

“Was the object of that drug to overcome the so-called defense mechanism which would prevent a patient from disclosing facts which the patient might consider as damaging?”

“It was.”

“Did you at that time have a tape recorder present?”

“I did.”

“Did the patient at that time make a statement which was recorded on the tape recorder?”

“Now if the Court please,” Mason said, “I object to that on the ground that it is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial; that it conclusively appears the patient was under the influence of drugs so that anything that was stated at that time would be the figment of a drugged imagination; on the further ground that it calls for the betrayal of a confidential communication and on the further ground that if there is any confession or admission contained in that tape recording there is no proper foundation laid inasmuch as there has been no proof of the corpus delicti.”

“Now then,” Judge Ashurst said, “we’re getting to the crux of the legal situation which, of course, the Court has generally understood would arise during the course of this trial. I think that the argument should take place outside of the presence of the jury. However, the Court will observe that the question as it is now asked does not call for an answer which would justify all of the objections that were taken. As I understand it, the prosecution intends to show that such a tape recording was made and then dismiss the doctor. It then wishes to produce the tape recording as an admission of the defendant and ask that it be played to the jury.”

“That is correct, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said.

“But,” Mason said, “we’re going to have to face all of these facts and we may as well face them now.”

“I think I will overrule the objections at this time until we have all of the preliminaries out of the way,” Judge Ashurst ruled.

“Did you make such a tape recording?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“I did.”

“What was done with that tape recording?”

“It was placed in my safe.”

“What happened to it after that?”

“It was turned over to the police by my nurse. The police served a search warrant on her and searched the office and took possession of the tape recording.”

“I show you a spool of tape on which there is a notation in red pencil, presumably in your handwriting, stating, ‘Interview with Nadine Farr, September 17th,’ and ask you if that notation was made by you?”

“It was. Yes, sir.”

“And it was made on the spool of tape recording on which the words of Nadine Farr were recorded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all,” Hamilton Burger said triumphantly.

“Just a few questions,” Mason said. “At the time the tape recording was made Nadine Farr was your patient?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were endeavoring to treat her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In order to treat her effectively you felt it was necessary to know certain facts which you felt could be brought out by question and answer under a so-called truth serum test?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you administered this test as a part of your treatment as a psychiatrist and a physician and surgeon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now the defendant was under the influence of drugs at that time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she know what she was doing?”

“Well, there you get into a very peculiar psychological situation, Mr. Mason. A part of her mind knew that she was making a statement and answering questions. A part of her mind was drugged into such a degree of quiescence that there could be no resistance.”

“In other words, her consciousness was impaired by drugs?”

“Yes.”

“Her volition was impaired by drugs?”

“Yes.”

“Those drugs were administered by you as a physician in the course of treatment?”

“Yes.”

“And you asked those questions and received answers from her in the capacity of a physician diagnosing the condition of a patient and as a confidential communication?”

“Yes.”

“You have given many such examinations?”

“Yes.”

“What is the purpose of those examinations?”

“Well, you evaluate certain emotional conflicts because of answers which are received.”

“Are those answers always intelligible?”

“Definitely not.”

“Are they always correct?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then there is a possibility that the answers which you received to your questions in this case are not correct?”

“There is always that possibility.”

“You are familiar with the phenomenon known as talking in one’s sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Was the defendant’s condition similar to that which produces sleep talking?”

“Very much. It was an artificially induced sleep talking.”

“That is all,” Mason said.

“Just a moment,” Hamilton Burger said. “If the statements made by patients under a so-called truth serum examination were incorrect there wouldn’t be any point in giving such an examination, Doctor.”

“I didn’t say that the answers were incorrect. I said there was a possibility that they could be incorrect.”

“Is that possibility sufficiently great so that it negatives the value of the test? In other words, were you taking this patient’s money and taking her time for a treatment that was of no value?”

“Certainly not. One has to understand how to evaluate those answers. Sometimes even when the answers are incorrect the emotional status of the patient can be evaluated.”

“So this test is of some value in your diagnosis?”

“Definitely.”

“And by this test you expected to find out what was causing guilt feelings on the part of the defendant?”

“Objected to,” Mason said, “as calling for a matter of treatment. It is the same question which was asked before and to which an objection was sustained. It seeks to pry into the relationship between the patient and the doctor. It also assumes a fact not in evidence.”

“I think,” Judge Ashurst ruled, “that you have now identified the tape recording, Mr. Prosecutor. I think that any further questions should be limited, except those questions generally as to the mental condition of the patient at the time it was made. I think the question before the Court will now hinge upon an attempt to introduce that tape recording.”

“I ask to have it introduced in evidence,” Hamilton Burger said.

“I object,” Mason said, “on the ground that it is a tape recording of a confidential communication between a physician and a patient. I object because it is a privileged communication. I object because it appears that the defendant was under the influence of drugs at the time the statement was made, and that there’s a distinct possibility that any statements contained in that tape recording are incorrect. I further object on the ground that it is not the best evidence and that no proper foundation has been laid. I further object on the ground that there has as yet been no proof of the corpus delicti, that there is no evidence that Mosher Higley died from other than natural causes, and that until there is some definite evidence indicating a criminal activity in connection with the death of Mosher Higley there can be no evidence of any statements or admissions or confessions made by the defendant.”

Judge Ashurst turned to the jury. “The jury will be excused,” he said, “while this objection is considered by the Court. During the time that the jury is excused you will not comment about the case or about the objection which is being argued before the Court. You will not discuss the case or permit it to be discussed in your presence, nor will you form or express any opinion as to the guilt of the defendant until the matter is finally submitted to you. Now then, the jury will be excused and we will proceed with the arguments.”

Hamilton Burger waited until the jury had left the courtroom, then said, “If the Court please, I may state to the Court outside of the presence of the jury, that on this tape recording there is a definite statement by the defendant, in a voice unmistakably her own, that she poisoned Mosher Higley. I realize that while we haven’t definitely established that Mosher Higley died as a result of cyanide poisoning I do feel that we have definitely established that he did not die as a result of any natural cause. Therefore there must have been some criminal agency. I think we have also raised a sufficient presumption that death was probably due to cyanide of potassium so that we can introduce this statement in evidence.”

Judge Ashurst looked at Perry Mason. “I’d like to hear the position of the defendant on that.”

Mason said, “This is a confidential communication. It was made under the influence of drugs. The witness would not have been permitted to take the stand and testify while in that drugged condition. Therefore she shouldn’t be permitted to testify by means of a tape recorder.

“The rule in this state was originally established in the case of People versus Robinson, 19 California 40, which was to the effect that words uttered by a defendant while not conscious of what he was saying could not constitute evidence of guilt and are inadmissible. This rule was held to exclude statements made by a defendant while asleep.

“That case, if the Court please, was subsequently cited in the case of Chadwick versus United States, 141 Federal 225.”

The judge smiled. “I was wondering why you asked the question about sleep talking, Mr. Mason. I see now that you had a firm objective in mind. The authority in question would seem to be conclusive.”

Judge Ashurst looked over at Hamilton Burger.

“Well, that whole doctrine is obsolete,” Hamilton Burger said. “It was decided in People versus Rucker, 11 California Appellate 2nd 609, 54 Pacific 2nd, 508, that any evidence tending to establish that a defendant was not in full possession of his faculties at the time he confessed guilt would not affect the admissibility of the confession but would be evidence for the jury to consider in determining the weight to be given to the confession.

“I therefore insist that this confession can be heard by the jury. Counsel can then introduce all of the evidence he wants tending to show the mental condition of the defendant at the time the confession was made. The jury can consider that evidence for the purpose of determining whether or not the confession is true. However, if the Court please, all of the physical facts show that that confession is true. The truth is apparent because it dovetails in with every physical fact.

“Under the law any confession, no matter how it is obtained, can be admitted if there is corroborating evidence showing it to be true.

“I will, if the Court please, read from Volume 8, California Jurisprudence, at page no: ‘Inasmuch as the theory upon which involuntary confessions are excluded is their possible falsity, if the confession discloses incriminating facts which are shown to be true, the reason of the rule ceases to exist, and so much of the confession as discloses the fact and the fact disclosed are competent.’ Now then, if the Court please, this rule was followed in the case of People versus Castello, 194 California 595, 229 Pacific, 855, where it was stated that where physical facts and circumstances corroborate confessions of guilt, the reason of the rule which would otherwise exclude involuntary confessions to this extent ceases to exist

“If the Court please, we expect to show that this confession is completely corroborated by physical facts to such an extent that extrinsic evidence unmistakably stamps the confession with the mark of truth.

“In this case, as the Court will note when it hears the tape recording, the defendant stated that she went to the gun room of Mosher Higley, that she cut open two shells and put shot from those shells in the bottle of poison and that she threw that bottle in the lake.

“Now we will show that this bottle of poison was recovered, that the two shotgun shells which had been pried open were recovered from the exact place behind the gun cabinet where the defendant said she had put them.

“And this,” Hamilton Burger went on, “notwithstanding the fact that someone,” and here Hamilton Burger turned and bowed sardonically to Perry Mason, “had attempted to confuse the issues by planting another bottle filled with shot and a harmless sugar substitute out in the lake. And, if the Court please, we expect to prove before this case is done that Perry Mason was seen going out to the lake and throwing an object into the lake at this exact place shortly before he hired some young boys to make an opportune recovery of this planted bottle of evidence.”

Judge Ashurst frowned. “This is a very serious situation,” he said. “I think that the Court will permit you, as a part of this offer, to put on evidence in regard to the shotgun shells and the bottle of poison, Mr. District Attorney, and if the corroboration is as you indicate, the Court will then take up the question of permitting the tape recording to be played to the jury and permitting the evidence as to the bottle and in regard to the shotgun shells to be again introduced for the consideration of the jury.”

“Very well,” Hamilton Burger said. “I’ll make the proof to the Court right now. I’ll produce these shotgun shells and state to the Court, as an officer of the Court, that these shells were found in the place described by the defendant in her confession.”

Hamilton Burger motioned to his assistant and produced two shotgun shells which were presented to the Court.

Mason inspected the shotgun shells.

“These shells are sixteen-gauge shotgun shells stamped ‘UMC No. 16,’ ” Judge Ashurst said. “They have the wads pulled out. All of the shot has been dumped out from one shell and part of the shot from another.”

“That is correct,” Hamilton Burger said. “The shot just fills the vial and that vial contains tablets of cyanide of potassium.”

“What about the other vial?” Judge Ashurst asked.

“That other vial,” Hamilton Burger said, “contains a sugar substitute, a chemical sweetening tablet, and contains similar shot.”

“Do you have those vials with you?”

“I have them both here,” Hamilton Burger said. “One of them is marked Exhibit A for identification and the other Exhibit B.”

Burger produced the bottles.

Judge Ashurst looked accusingly at Perry Mason. “It is, of course, a most significant fact that two bottles were recovered from the place where the defendant mentioned she had thrown the bottle containing the poison. One of the bottles contains poison exactly as described by the defendant, and the other bottle contains a harmless chemical substitute. Is that correct, Mr. District Attorney?”

“That is correct,” Hamilton Burger said, leering triumphantly at Perry Mason.

Mason said, “If the Court please, I think I can account for the bottle which contains the harmless sugar substitute, and since there has been an insinuation that I was responsible for planting that, I would like at this time to call a witness who will testify on that phase of the matter.”

“The Court will permit that,” Judge Ashurst said. “This witness, of course, is called in connection with a motion which is addressed solely to the discretion of the Court, or, rather, in connection with an objection to the admissibility of evidence on which the Court desires to take evidence.”

“This is correct,” Mason said. “I’m going to ask Mr. Jackson Newburn to come forward and be sworn.”

Jackson Newburn got up from the audience, came forward, raised his right hand and was sworn.

“Take the witness stand,” Judge Ashurst said.

Mason said, “Your name is Jackson Newburn. You are married to Sue Newburn, who is a surviving niece of Mosher Higley. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“And as such husband and because of the relationship, you had access to the house of Mosher Higley, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were there from time to time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were there on the day that Mosher Higley died?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And after his death you learned, did you not, that the defendant had made statements to the effect that she had taken tablets of what she thought was a sugar substitute from a bottle kept in the usual place, that immediately after giving Mosher Higley the chocolate containing these tablets Mosher Higley accused her of having poisoned him, went into choking convulsions and died shortly thereafter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were friendly with the defendant?”

“Not exactly friendly. At that time I sympathized with her.”

“You say at that time?”

“Yes. At that time I thought she was being rather abused by Mosher Higley. I didn’t at that time know certain facts which I discovered later, facts which indicated she was engaged in blackmailing my wife’s uncle.”

“Now your wife is a relatively young woman?”

“On the sunny side of thirty,” Newburn said.

“She has a good figure?”

“I consider it a very good figure.”

“She tries to protect that figure by a careful diet?”

“Yes.”

“And in her house she has a certain chemical sugar substitute in the form of tablets which she uses for sweetening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, it was through her recommendation of this chemical sweetening that Mosher Higley was induced to start using these same tablets?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And after you found out that the defendant had stated she had placed the tablets she feared were cyanide in a bottle together with shot, and had thrown the bottle out into a lake known as Twomby’s Lake, you tried to protect her by going to your home, taking a partially filled bottle of these same sugar tablets, filling it with shot and throwing it out in the lake?”

“I did not.”

“What?” Mason exclaimed in surprise. “You didn’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Why, you told me you did. You admitted it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Mason said, “that when I approached you there at a club on West Adams Street, a club known as the Wildcat Exploration and Development Club, you didn’t tell me there on the porch of that club that you had done this very thing?”

“I did not.”

Mason said grimly, “Now, Your Honor, I am faced with a situation where a witness is apparently committing deliberate perjury. I will state to the Court on my honor as an attorney that this witness did make such a statement to me.”

“That is not true,” Newburn said calmly. “I made no such statement.”

Hamilton Burger smiled. “Well, now, just a moment,” he said. “We have a very peculiar situation. Counsel, having been accused of having prepared a bottle of sugar pills, filling it with shot, and throwing it out in the lake, now seeks to disclaim responsibility by claiming that Jackson Newburn threw that bottle out in the lake. Newburn says he didn’t. Counsel says that Newburn told him he did. Here we have a direct conflict between Counsel and Newburn. One of them certainly is lying. I leave it to the Court to determine as to which is the most interested and which would be most apt to tell a falsehood for the purpose of protecting his reputation.”

“Now just a moment,” Judge Ashurst said, his face stern. “Apparently one of these persons is making a false statement, a statement which is unequivocally false. Mr. Newburn, I am going to ask you, did you make any such statement to Mr. Mason?”

“I did not.”

“I propose to show that he did,” Mason said.

“By your own testimony?” Judge Ashurst asked.

“Yes.”

“Any corroboration?”

Mason hesitated a moment, then shook his head and said, “No corroboration which is of evidentiary value. My secretary was sitting in a car parked at the curb and I told her as soon as I returned from the interview what Mr. Newburn had said.”

“That, of course, is no corroboration. That is simply a self-serving declaration,” Hamilton Burger said.

“I think the Court knows me well enough to know that while I will use certain methods which some persons may consider unorthodox for the purpose of bringing out the true facts in a case, I certainly will not jeopardize myself by making a false statement,” Mason said. “Nor would I go to the extent of planting evidence for the purpose of confusing the officers or protecting a person accused of murder.”

“That, of course, is a matter of debate,” Hamilton Burger said. “You have your own peculiar standard of ethics in such matters and I don’t profess to know what they are.

“However, I will state to the Court that we now have a situation where this witness, Newburn, states definitely he did not have any such conversation with Mason. Mason proposes to swear that he did. For what purpose? All that Mason could do would be to impeach the witness. A person cannot impeach his own witness and, even if he did, that statement would be only for purposes of impeachment. It wouldn’t go to establish the fact.”

“That, of course, is true,” Judge Ashurst said. “If Mr. Mason took the stand all he could do would be to impeach the veracity of this witness, and this is his own witness, but even if he did impeach him it wouldn’t establish the fact that the witness had actually thrown this bottle out in the lake. That, of course, is a technical legal rule, but, after all, as Counsel has pointed out, this is a case in which he intends to rely on technicalities and the prosecution is entitled to protection under the law just as the defendant is.”

Mason, his face flushed with anger, said, “Your Honor, I’d like to have an adjournment of this case until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I’ll certainly go into this matter. I intend to take some steps to ascertain the truth. I am certain of my facts, and I know that this witness made a definite statement to me, a statement such as I reported to the Court.”

Judge Ashurst deliberated for a few moments, then said, “Of course, while it is beside the point, the Court has always found Perry Mason strictly scrupulous and strictly accurate in any statements made to the Court.”

Hamilton Burger said, with what amounted to a sneer, “Counsel has continually resorted to all sorts of ingenious trickery in connection with his cases. This is one time he went too far and now that he is trapped he realizes that his entire professional reputation is at stake. It is distasteful to me to have to make these comments but I suggest that the Court consider the motivation.”

Mason, who had been studying the exhibits, turned to Burger. “Wait a minute. You want to introduce this confession of the defendant on the theory among others that it is corroborated by the discovery of the shotgun shells in the very place where she said she had left them and that those shotgun shells constitute a sufficient corroboration so that the evidence can be received?”

“Exactly,” Hamilton Burger said.

Mason smiled. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll meet you on that legal contention. If that will be your contention I’ll withdraw all objection to the tape-recorded confession.”

“Here, here, wait a minute,” Judge Ashurst said. “You can’t do that, Mr. Mason. You have to protect the rights of the defendant. There is a very serious question here as to whether a confession under the influence of drugs can be used and there is also a very serious question as to whether this constitutes a confidential communication. The Court isn’t prepared to announce its ruling as yet on those objections but they certainly are material objections affecting the substantial rights of the defendant and—”

“And I’ll withdraw the objection,” Mason said, “provided the district attorney goes ahead as he has indicated. I’ll accept his challenge and meet him on those grounds.”

“I am trying to point out that you can’t do that,” Judge Ashurst said. “You can’t waive the rights of the defendant. You may have some theory here, but the Court is free to admit it can’t realize what it is. However, the Court does understand that you have a very potent technical objection, one which may result in a dismissal of the entire case if the Court rules in your favor.”

“And which would leave the defendant forever tarred with the stigma of having been a murderess who escaped through a technicality,” Mason said. “No, Your Honor, I’m representing the defendant. The defendant is in my hands. I’ll withdraw the objection. Go ahead. Call the jury back into court. Let the prosecutor put on his corroboration, then play that tape recording to the jury.”

Hamilton Burger said triumphantly, “That suits me.”

“I don’t think you have the right to do this,” Judge Ashurst said.

“As the lawyer representing the defendant I have a right to conduct the case the way I see fit,” Mason told him.

“But you yourself have a direct interest in this case, Mr. Mason. I regret to have to point it out but you are involved in this thing yourself. There is, of course, naturally a temptation to... to— The Court was about to say, save your own skin, but that is too drastic an expression.”

“Let it go at that,” Mason said. “Let’s suppose I am trying to save my own skin. Nevertheless, I’m going to meet this issue head on and right here and now. The defendant doesn’t want to go through life forever branded as having murdered her benefactor and having taken advantage of a technicality to escape justice. Let’s meet this thing.”

Hamilton Burger said eagerly, “The prosecution accepts that situation. Your Honor, the objection has been withdrawn and in the absence of any objection I feel that the Court has nothing to rule on.”

“The objection is withdrawn only to this extent,” Mason said, “that you are going to introduce those shotgun shells and the bottle containing the poison.”

“That’s right,” Hamilton Burger said triumphantly.

Mason turned and walked back to the counsel table, thereby terminating the discussion.

Judge Ashurst stroked his chin thoughtfully, looked at Mason speculatively.

“The objection is withdrawn. There’s nothing before the Court,” Hamilton Burger insisted.

“Very well,” Judge Ashurst remarked reluctantly. “Let the record show exactly what has taken place. Now then, the Court is going to ask the defendant to stand up. Miss Farr, will you stand up, please?”

Nadine Farr stood up.

“You have heard what was said by your counsel?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do you wish the Court to appoint other counsel to defend you?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Are you satisfied with the position adopted by your attorney?”

“Whatever Mr. Mason says is all right with me,” she said.

Judge Ashurst shook his head dubiously. “The Court still doesn’t feel right about this matter. The Court is going to take an adjournment and give the matter further consideration. The Court is frank to state that the technical objections in regard to the corpus delicti appear to the Court to have a substantial foundation in fact; furthermore, the fact that this so-called confession was made under the influence of narcotics, and the further fact that this was a communication with a physician within the four walls of a doctor’s office for the purpose of getting treatment, all tend to make a very serious technical situation.”

“I have other authorities, if the Court please,” Hamilton Burger said. “When a patient confesses a crime to a doctor, the doctor cannot consider that as a confidential communication.”

“But this doctor is a psychiatrist,” Judge Ashurst pointed out. “I am familiar with the line of decisions indicating that a confession to a crime is not necessary to enable a doctor to make his diagnosis and that therefore it is not a privileged communication, but here we are dealing with a psychiatrist who, according to your own words, was trying to probe the underlying causes of the patient’s guilt.”

“I can short-cut all of that if you want,” Mason said. “I can prove right here and now that the defendant never threw that bottle of poison into Twomby’s Lake.”

“How are you going to prove it?” Hamilton Burger demanded truculently. “That’s another grandstand play, another attempt to influence the press. You—”

Judge Ashurst banged his gavel. “That will do, Mr. Prosecutor. Mr. Mason, you wish to point out something to the Court?”

“Simply this,” Mason said. “Look at the wadding on those shells. Those are sixteen-gauge shells filled with number five chilled shot. Look at the bottle marked Exhibit A containing the poison. Look at those shot. Those shot are number seven and a half or number eight bird shot. They’re very definitely not number five shot. And you can still see some of the five shot which are left in the shell which was only half-emptied.

“In other words, Your Honor, the bottle containing the harmless sugar substitute, Exhibit B, is the bottle that contains the number five chilled shot which came from the shotgun shells. The bottle, Exhibit A, containing the cyanide of potassium, contains number eight shot or number nine. That load is a much finer bird shot intended for trap shooting or upland game, whereas the load in the shells which were found in the place mentioned in the tape-recorded statement contains shot used for hunting ducks.

“Now then, Your Honor, I ask that we bring in a pair of scales right here and now before there’s any opportunity to tamper with that evidence and weigh the shot which are found in both bottles. I think you will find that the shot in the bottle containing the harmless sugar substitute represent the exact weight of the shot taken from the two shells found in the gun room; that the shot in the bottle containing cyanide of potassium definitely came from another source.”

Judge Ashurst picked up the two bottles, glanced at Hamilton Burger.

“Oh, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said, “this is another grandstand play. This is— How do I know what happened? Counsel was in a position to switch those bottles. I definitely accuse him of having thrown one of those bottles—”

“Which one?” Mason asked.

“Exhibit B,” Hamilton Burger snapped.

“All right,” Mason said, “then you contend that the defendant threw the bottle Exhibit A?”

“That’s right.”

“Then her confession can’t be substantiated because the shot in Exhibit A didn’t come from those two shotgun shells. You’ve stated that you’re willing to submit your entire case on the theory that the confession, no matter how obtained, can be introduced if it is corroborated by independent physical evidence.”

Hamilton Burger looked at the two bottles, scratched his head, said, “I don’t know definitely — of course, there is always the possibility these labels have been substituted.”

“In that case,” Mason said, “the bottle that you accuse me of having thrown into the lake then contains cyanide of potassium and the bottle you now claim the defendant threw into the lake contains the sugar substitute.”

Hamilton Burger started to say something, then looked around at the newspaper reporters who were literally crowding forward.

“Let’s have an adjournment in this case,” he said, “until we can get some of these facts unscrambled.”

“Let’s not have any adjournment or any possibility of having any substitution made until we get this thing straight,” Mason said. “Let’s get the ballistics expert from the sheriff’s office into court, have him bring a pair of scales and find out about these shot.”

Judge Ashurst nodded to the bailiff. “Get the ballistics expert from the sheriff’s office, Mr. Bailiff.”

Chapter Sixteen

Alexander Redfield was the ballistics expert who had featured so prominently in Perry Mason’s earlier case involving the redheaded waitress who had been accused of murder. Having completed the tests made in front of Judge Ashurst and the tensely, dramatically silent courtroom, he looked at Mason with a respect amounting to awe.

“Mr. Mason is absolutely correct, Your Honor. The shells which were found in the gun room and which I have previously examined at the request of the district attorney contain number five shot. These shot are twelve one-hundredths of an inch in diameter and average one hundred and seventy to the ounce. These particular shells are made by the Remington Company. Each shell contains approximately one and one-eighth ounces of shot. The shot that are in this bottle which contains the sugar substitute, Exhibit B, came from these shells. The shot in this bottle are the exact weight of the lead shot missing from the two shells.

“On the other hand, the shot in the bottle of cyanide, which is marked Exhibit A, are a smaller shot and, frankly, I don’t think they came from a shotgun shell. If the Court will notice, there is a peculiar coating on these shot. I have not had time as yet to make chemical analysis but I think it will be determined that the substance coating those shot is ink.”

“Ink!” Judge Ashurst exclaimed.

“Exactly, Your Honor. The Court may have noticed that in certain hotels where pens are used, there is frequently a glass container filled with small shot and in which pens are dipped. It is an old-fashioned custom which has largely become outmoded, but it still exists in certain places.

“A steel pen retains ink and in the course of time is corroded. An attempt is made to remove the ink from the pen by placing the pen in a container in which there’s a large number of small shot. The ink has a tendency to leave the pen and cling to the shot, and I believe there is also some sort of a chemical reaction which protects the steel pen from corrosion, although I am not in a position to make that as a definite statement.

“However, you will note that these smaller shot in the bottle containing the cyanide, Exhibit A, have a definite discoloration which I think is ink.”

“Now then,” Mason interposed, “I want the Court to order the police to check immediately on the clubs to which Jackson Newburn belongs — they might start with the Wildcat Exploration and Development Club on West Adams Street — and see if on the desks of one of those clubs, in the writing room, there are not glass containers holding shot similar to those found in this exhibit. I also want the Court to have those shot impounded and the ink on them analyzed and see if it is not the same ink as is found on these shot in the bottle, Exhibit A. I think it is going to be possible to prove that the shot in this bottle containing the cyanide came from the writing room of one of those clubs.”

Judge Ashurst glanced at Jackson Newburn.

“The Court will make that order,” he said. “The Court considers this matter of the greatest importance and—”

“It isn’t necessary,” Newburn blurted.

“What?” Judge Ashurst exclaimed. “Come up here. Take that witness chair. You may step aside, Mr. Redfield.”

“Mr. Mason is right,” Newburn said, his voice lowered so that it was with difficulty the Court could distinguish the words. He eased himself into the witness chair. “I got the shot in that bottle from the glass containers at the Wildcat Club. They have a writing room in which there are half a dozen writing desks. Those desks have glass inkwells and there is a container of shot on each one of those desks, shot in which the pens are kept. I... I took the shot from there.”

“Now just a minute,” Judge Ashurst said. “Let’s see if I understand you correctly. Then you are the one who put the shot from these containers which you got at that club in this bottle marked Exhibit A?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“The bottle containing the cyanide?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And what did you do with that bottle?”

“I threw it out in the lake.”

“You are now referring to the bottle containing the cyanide, not the bottle containing the sugar substitute?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And you did tell Perry Mason you threw a bottle of sugar substitute pills in the lake?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Ashurst said angrily, “I order this man into custody for deliberate perjury and suspicion of murder. I direct that the police go out to this club and impound this evidence immediately.”

Mason said, “Perhaps the Court would like to ask this witness where he got the cyanide.”

Judge Ashurst turned angrily to Newburn. “Now,” he said, “you are very plainly guilty of flagrant perjury in this court. You may well be accused of murder. Anything you say can be used against you. I want you to understand that. You have the right to consult an attorney if you desire. Now then, where did you get the cyanide that you put in that bottle?”

“From the laboratory.”

“What laboratory?”

“The laboratory where John Locke works.”

“And how did you get in there?”

“That laboratory is doing a job for an oil company in which I have an interest — in fact, I was instrumental in getting the job for Mr. Locke’s company.”

“Then,” Judge Ashurst said, “you administered the cyanide which may have been the cause of Mosher Higley’s death?”

Newburn looked at the judge with panic in his eyes and shook his head.

“You did not?”

“No, I didn’t,” Newburn said, “but God knows how I’ll ever prove it now.”

“Why did you do all this?” Mason asked, his voice kindly.

“I did it to protect my wife.”

“In what way?” Mason asked.

“At the time I did it I was convinced this so-called confession of Nadine was simply a pipe dream, the hallucination of a disordered mind which was produced by drugs, but I knew that my wife — I thought that my wife had killed him and I was trying to protect her.”

“And how were you trying to protect her?” Mason asked.

“As soon as I knew that Nadine had made that confession on the tape recording, I knew that the police would go out to search Twomby’s Lake. If they didn’t find any cyanide in a bottle filled with shot it would tend to make it appear that the confession was simply a... well, a pipe dream. But if they did, then they would have this confession authenticated.”

“So what did you do?” Mason asked.

“The cyanide tablets I had had in my house for some time,” Newburn said. “I got them some four weeks before Mosher Higley’s death. We had been troubled with dogs that were tearing up my wife’s flower beds. My wife determined to poison them. I pointed out to her that it was a crime to poison dogs but she was bitterly vindictive. I told her that if she tried to buy poison, that poison would be traced and... well, we discussed it and finally I agreed to get her the cyanide tablets from the jar that I knew was in the laboratory where John Locke worked.

“I was making frequent trips to that laboratory at that time because the company which employed Locke was making a chemical analysis of certain alloys which were being used in some of my oil drilling operations.”

“And you naturally assumed that your wife had used some of this cyanide to poison Mosher Higley?” Mason asked.

Newburn nodded.

“And so you felt that if the police did search the lake and did find the bottle just as described by Nadine, it would remove suspicion from your wife?”

“Everything would have been all right if it hadn’t been for that crazy idea of Nadine’s,” Newburn said, “but once she got that idea I knew that they would exhume Mosher Higley’s body. I didn’t know enough about the effect of the embalming fluid to know that it would destroy the evidences of the cyanide, so I thought that they would trace the cyanide through me to my wife and... well, she had poisoned two of the dogs and the neighbors were already suspicious and— You can see my situation.”

“So then when I talked with you,” Mason said, “being afraid that it might appear that you had thrown one of the bottles into Twomby’s Lake, you tried to clear yourself by stating you had thrown the bottle that contained the sugar substitute?”

“That’s right.”

“Now then, what made you think that your wife had poisoned Mosher Higley?”

“I thought she had at the time. Now I know that she did not.”

“You know what?” Judge Ashurst demanded.

“I know that she did not.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told me so.”

Hamilton Burger said wearily, “Your Honor, here we go again. This is another ring-around-a-rosy, another dramatic jiggling and juggling of evidence and witnesses—”

“Sit down and keep quiet,” Judge Ashurst said. “I’m doing this. I don’t mean to be discourteous, but we’re rapidly approaching a solution here. It may not be the solution you want, but it’s the solution the Court wants. Now, don’t interrupt.”

Judge Ashurst turned to Newburn.

“Now, you say that you know your wife didn’t poison Higley because she told you so?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“But what first made you think she had poisoned Mosher Higley?”

“Because she was there just before his death. I know that she went downstairs to the dining room while the chocolate was being mixed. She looked around for Nadine and couldn’t find her. She called for Cap’n Hugo and he wasn’t around. She could easily have gone on to the kitchen and seen the double boiler in which the chocolate was being melted, and I... I naturally assumed she had done that and had put in the poison.”

“Why?”

“Because we had discovered something that was most disturbing.”

“What?”

“We had discovered that Mosher Higley had murdered his partner some years ago, and that partner was Nadine Farr’s father.

“Nadine had uncovered the situation and had demanded certain things from Mosher Higley. He had acquiesced because... because he was actually guilty, and he confessed to Sue.”

“Sue is your wife?”

“Yes.”

“When was that confession made?”

“The day before his death.”

“So,” Judge Ashurst said, “you and your wife felt that as a result of this confession your inheritance was in jeopardy, that because of this murder Nadine Farr had a claim upon him?”

“It was more than that,” Newburn said. “After his partner’s death, Higley manipulated the affairs of the partnership so that he cheated his partner’s estate. You see, Rose Farr, Nadine’s mother, was the real brains of the partnership. She was the secretary-manager-accountant-bookkeeper and general live wire. She had all of the facts at her finger tips. After the partner’s death, Rose Farr was pregnant and—”

“Now you’re getting into rather an involved situation here,” Judge Ashurst said. “Let’s just boil it down to something simple.”

“Well, Mosher Higley had murdered his partner and had taken the money. The partner left a will leaving all of his share in the partnership to Rose Farr, Nadine’s mother. Under the circumstances, if Nadine should employ a lawyer claiming that the money was held by Higley in involuntary trust for her... well, it was a terrible situation.

“Nadine as yet didn’t know all the facts, that is, she surmised them but she didn’t have any proof. Mosher Higley was facing death. He knew he didn’t have long to live and... he was frightened. Well, he confessed to us.”

“To your wife or to you?”

“To both of us.”

“And what did you do?”

“We told him not to do anything until we had seen a lawyer.”

“And did you see a lawyer?”

“No. His death... well, you can understand, if he died of cyanide poisoning and — His death was exceedingly opportune. Some of that land is potentially valuable as oil land. In fact, I may say it is very, very valuable.”

“And because of that fact you thought that your wife had killed him?”

“That... that and what she said.”

“What did she say?”

“Sue hates Nadine. She said that this thing couldn’t go on, that she wasn’t going to permit Nadine to step in and jerk the rug out from under us. We talked about things that could happen and she said how nice it would be if Mosher Higley would conveniently die before— Then we discussed — that is, she discussed the cyanide. She asked me what would happen if some cyanide pills were placed in his chocolate instead of — Oh, Your Honor, it’s just one of those messes. I... I’m trapped by events, but... but Sue tells me she didn’t do it.”

“I see,” Judge Ashurst said sarcastically. “You and your wife, knowing that Mosher Higley was a murderer and an embezzler, knowing that he had defrauded Nadine Farr out of her inheritance, were not only interested in keeping the truth from coming out, but you discussed how much poison would be necessary to give him to see that he conveniently died before any action could be taken.”

“I... we talked about it... not that cold-bloodedly, just sort of — it was just a possibility we explored.”

“And you assumed your wife had killed him. Now, notwithstanding the depths of depravity disclosed by your testimony, simply because your wife tells you that she didn’t kill him, you accept her word and feel that she is innocent?”

“If Sue had done it she would have told me,” Newburn said.

“And on that note of complete and utter moral degradation,” Judge Ashurst snapped, “this court is going to adjourn. The Court orders this witness into custody and suggests that the police should immediately arrest Sue Newburn, the wife of this witness, and charge her and her husband with murder.

“The court will recess until four o’clock. The jury is going to be instructed to return a directed verdict of not guilty when court reconvenes. In the meantime court is adjourned.”

Judge Ashurst banged his gavel vindictively.

Chapter Seventeen

The adjournment of court left the audience in a state of confusion which, as one newspaper subsequently stated, “broke all records for pandemonium even in a Perry Mason case.”

Hamilton Burger, dazed, chagrined and angry, pushed his way from the courtroom. Jackson Newburn and his wife, in custody, were escorted toward the jail, Jackson Newburn begging his wife to tell the truth. Sue Newburn, tight-lipped and angry, was heard to say, “You weak-kneed bounder! You welsher! You double-crossing little rat. You’ll never get another cent of my money as long as you live,” and Newburn, properly humble but still conscious of the main issue, said, “Honey, you haven’t any money, and the hell of it is you aren’t going to have any.”

Della Street and Paul Drake huddled around Mason and the defendant, congratulating them. Nadine Farr, laughing and crying by turns, was completely hysterical.

A policewoman said, “I’m sorry but I’m going to have to keep her in custody. The Court didn’t formally release the defendant as yet.”

Mason patted Nadine on the back. “Everything’s okay now, Nadine. Just relax.”

She nodded, cried, wiped the tears away, started to laugh, then impulsively threw her arms around Mason, drew herself close up against him and kissed him.

Newspaper photographers, watching for some catchy bit of action, shot off a whole series of flash bulbs.

One photographer who had missed out said, “Would you mind doing that again, miss? I didn’t get it.”

“Not at all,” she said, and promptly accommodated him.

The policewoman, smiling indulgently, waited until the photograph had been taken, then led Nadine away.

“Well,” asked Paul Drake, “what do you make of it now? What’s Hamilton Burger going to do?”

“Lord knows,” Mason said. “But the interesting thing is that ninety-nine chances out of a hundred he’s going to do the wrong thing.”

“In what way?”

“He’s going to try to prosecute Sue Newburn for murder.”

“Well?”

“And this time,” Mason said, “he’s got no confession. He can’t prove the corpus delicti, he can’t prove that Mosher Higley died from cyanide of potassium poisoning, and he can’t prove how it was administered.”

“Of course Jackson Newburn’s testimony will—”

Mason chuckled.

“What’s the matter?” Drake asked.

“Jackson Newburn’s testimony won’t be admissible,” Mason said. “A husband can’t testify against his wife in a proceeding of that sort unless the wife consents. So now we can enjoy the spectacle of Hamilton Burger, after having been repeatedly described in the papers as ‘beaming,’ running around in a hopeless trap like a puppy chasing his tail and not being able to catch it.”

“But do you mean to say she can get away with deliberate murder without being caught?” Drake asked.

“Who said she committed deliberate murder?”

“Well, didn’t she?”

“You may have overlooked the significant thing about the testimony Newburn gave,” Mason said.

“I thought I got it all.”

“You missed the significant part.”

“What was that?”

“Remember,” Mason said, “that when John Locke went out to the house to try and get the cyanide pills, he sent Cap’n Hugo to Nadine’s bedroom to get the bottle. Cap’n Hugo brought it to him. He gave it to John Locke. There were four tablets short. It has never been disclosed what happened to those four tablets.”

“Good heavens, Chief,” Della Street said, “you don’t for a moment suppose that Nadine Fair really did poison him and—”

“You forget that Nadine Farr was interrogated under truth serum,” Mason said. “She was sufficiently drugged so that Dr. Denair got a good reaction. She told the story as she knows it.”

“But that bottle of cyanide — why, Chief, according to what John Locke says, that bottle of cyanide, all except four tablets, must have been out of the house by the time Nadine mixed that chocolate.”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “But remember that four tablets were missing.”

“Then her story was true. She did take that bottle of chemical sweetening—”

“That bottle of chemical sweetening,” Mason said, “was thrown in the lake. That’s the bottle that was recovered, the one that Hamilton Burger had as Exhibit B. That’s the one with the shot in it from the shotgun shell. That really was chemical sweetening.”

“But then,” Paul Drake asked, “how did Mosher Higley die?”

“There’s one other alternative,” Mason said, “and I think you have all overlooked the significant thing in Newburn’s testimony which was to the effect that when his wife slipped out toward the dining room, there was no one in sight, that she couldn’t find Nadine or Cap’n Hugo, that the double boiler containing the chocolate was on the stove, all melted, and—”

“You mean that she really did put the cyanide in at that time?”

Mason shook his head and said, “At that time Nadine must have been out to market, but what about Cap’n Hugo?”

“What about him?”

“He told us he was in the dining room all the time, washing windows.”

“Jackson Newburn didn’t see him. Apparently, Sue Newburn didn’t see him. Cap’n Hugo was the one John Locke sent after the bottle of cyanide. When he produced the bottle there were four tablets short.

“Cap’n Hugo felt very sympathetic toward Nadine Farr. He didn’t like the way Mosher Higley was treating her. He’d been with Mosher Higley for many years. He undoubtedly knew all about Rose Farr, all about the scandal, all about the death of Higley’s partner. Who can say otherwise than that Cap’n Hugo decided things had gone about far enough. It was time for him to retire to that little shack by the sea where he could get some good fishing, and time for Nadine to quit being pushed around.”

Paul Drake looked at Mason with consternation. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “When you stop to figure it out, it all fits in, it all clicks. Good Lord, Perry, what are you going to do? Are you going to tip Hamilton Burger off so he can grab Cap’n Hugo before he gets out?”

Mason said, “We’ll let Hamilton Burger paddle his own canoe for a while, Paul. After all, he wouldn’t welcome our help — at least, at the present time.

“After he realizes the legal problem of proof he’s up against, I might have a little chat with him — or perhaps you’d better, Paul. He might be less resentful if the information came from you.

“So if you’ll just hang around, Paul, I think at the proper time you can very tactfully place Burger under obligation to you — but leave me out of it.”

It took a good deal to bring expression to Paul Drake’s ordinarily impassive face, but this time his eyes were wide with surprise and a dawning comprehension.

“I’ll be damned!” he repeated slowly.

Content

Erle Stanley Gardner
The Case of the Demure Defendant

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen