“Thank you very much for a very impartial statement, Lieutenant Tragg. I have always appreciated your integrity, and I now appreciate your fairness. I have no further questions.”
Judge Kyle said, “Well, gentlemen, it seems we have covered a lot of ground today. I assume that the case can be finished in a few hours tomorrow?”
“I would think so,” the deputy district attorney said.
“Very well,” Judge Kyle said, “it’s the hour of the evening adjournment and Court will adjourn until tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. The defendant is-remanded. Court’s adjourned.”
Chapter 17
Back in his office, Mason found Paul Drake with a supplemental report on Horace Shelby.
“The guy’s doing pretty good,” Drake said. “He’s down there in Ensenada soaking up sunlight, walking around with a lot more assurance than when he first arrived, and he seems to be enjoying himself.”
“Anybody talk with him yet?” Mason asked.
“Not as an interview. But one of my men managed to engage him in conversation when Shelby was taking a stroll down on the wharf, and he reports the man is bright as a dollar.”
Mason sighed. “All right, I guess he can stand another shock by this nine.”
“You going down?”
“I’m going down,” Mason said. “I’ll have ‘Pinky’ fly me by fast twin-motored plane to San Diego, then pick up Francisco Munoz at Tijuana and — Instruct your man to be looking for me. I’ll meet him in front of the motel.”
“Will do,” Drake said.
“Now then,” Mason said, “I want to be sure that you don’t lose either Borden Finchley or his wife tonight. I want a shadow on them every minute of the time. Put on two or three operatives with cars if you have to.”
“I’ve already got them,” Drake said.
“What are the Finchley’s doing?”
“Living normally. They went up to court to hear the evidence and then they went back home.”
“Watch them carefully,” Mason said. “Della and I are going to Ensenada. Come on, Della.”
“No dinner?” Della asked.
Mason said, “A wonderful dinner. Genuine turtle soup, fried quail, a little venison steak on the side, if you’d care for it, some Santo Tomas wine and—”
“You mean we’re eating in Mexico?”
“I mean we’re eating in Mexico,” Mason said. “Ring up ‘Pinky’ and Francisco Murioz and let’s go. The sooner we get started, the sooner we eat.”
Della Street sighed. “A girl can’t keep on a diet in Ensenada. It would be a crime to order a cottage cheese salad under such circumstances.”
Her fingers started flying over the telephone dial.
Mason turned back to Paul Drake.
“Now then, Paul,” he said, “do you know anything about the technique of taking a pipe wrench, putting a piece of chamois skin around the jaws so that you can get a tight enough grip on a bit of metal so you can unscrew it but so the jaws don’t leave any mark in the metal?”
“I’ve seen it done,” Drake said.
Mason handed Paul Drake a section of pipe.
“Have your man at the Northern Lights get the section of pipe which connects the gas feed to that heating stove out of there and replace it with this pipe.”
Paul Drake took the piece of pipe which Mason handed him.
“Will this fit?” he asked.
“This will fit,” Mason said. “Very careful measurements have been taken.”
Drake turned the piece of pipe over slowly in his hands. “This has deep marks on it,” he said, “the marks of a pipe wrench and — there’s a nick in one of jaws?”
“Exactly,” Mason said.
“Now, look here,” Drake said, “this is substituting evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“You know what I mean. Evidence of murder. At least, evidence in a homicide case.”
Mason said, “Carefully remove the piece of pipe that’s now in there and be careful you don’t leave any marks on it. Use chamois skin to enable you to get a grip on the pipe without leaving any marks from your pipe wrench or obliterating any marks now on it. Take that piece of pipe into custody and hold it until Tragg asks you for it.”
“It’s still concealing evidence.”
“Concealing evidence, my eye,” Mason said. “You’re taking the evidence into your custody. It’s evidence that Tragg didn’t want. Now, get busy and get this thing done fast before somebody raises a question about it.”
Drake sighed. “You can skate faster and on thinner ice than anybody I ever worked with.”
“You’ll get a man on the job right away?”
Drake nodded.
“It has to be right away,” Mason said. “A lot may depend on it. I want it done within an hour, while Tragg is reporting what happened in court.”
Della said, “Pinky will have the plane waiting for us, all gassed up and ready to go.”
“Let’s go,” Mason said.
“We’ll be back tonight?” Della Street asked.
“We’ll be back tonight,” Mason said, “and in court in the morning.”
Chapter 18
The taxicab came to a stop at Casa de Mañana Motel.
Mason assisted Della Street from the cab, paid off the driver.
“No wait?” the driver asked.
“No wait,” Mason said, smiling. “Thank you very much. Gracias!”
The driver thanked Mason for the tip, started the car and drove on.
Mason and Della Street stood where he had left them.
Inskip, Paul’s detective, gave a low whistle from a parked car, and Mason and Della Street crossed over to the car.
“Unit five,” Inskip said. “He’s in there.”
The lawyer said, “Wait here, Inskip, you’ll be taking us to the airport and then your job will be over.”
The lawyer and Della Street walked under some banana trees, past the office down a wide corridor, and Mason knocked on the door of Number 5.
There was no answer no sound of stirring within.
Mason knocked again.
The door opened a tentative crack.
Mason surveyed the anxious face, smiled reassuringly and said, “I’m Perry Mason, Mr. Shelby, and this is my secretary, Della Street. We thought it was time to have a talk with you.”
“You... you’re... Perry Mason?”
“That’s right.”
“How did you — Oh, well, never mind, come in.”
Shelby opened the door.
“I was getting ready to retire for the night,” he explained apologetically, putting on his coat.
Mason patted him reassuringly on the shoulder, walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Della Street seated herself in one of the heavy leather chairs, and Horace Shelby took the other chair.
“It’s been a long, hard battle for you,” Mason said.
Shelby nodded. “You’re the attorney representing Daphne.”
“Yes.”
“That poor kid.”
“She’s having troubles,” Mason said.
Shelby looked up. “She’s having troubles?”
“That’s right.”
“Why? She shouldn’t be having any trouble!”
“I know she shouldn’t.”
“What sorts of troubles?” Shelby asked.
“She’s being tried for the murder of Ralph Exeter,” Mason said, and stopped talking.
Shelby’s face showed a succession of expression — surprise, consternation, anger.
“You said murder?”
“I said murder.”
“Ralph Exeter,” Shelby said, spitting out the words. “A cheap, blackmailing, gambling fourflusher — so he’s dead!”
“He’s dead.”
“You say it’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“Who killed him?”
“The police say Daphne did.”