Perry Mason, driving slowly along, counted the intersections to find the cross street that he wanted, turned abruptly to the right, ran his car for a block and a half, and stopped in front of a white stucco, red tile, pretentious house. The sign on the lawn which said “DR. JEFFERSON MACON” was hardly visible, now that the street lights had been extinguished.
Mason climbed a flight of short steps, found a bell button, and pushed it. A broad-beamed middle-aged woman with unsmiling countenance opened the door and said, “The doctor’s evening hours are nine to ten.”
Mason said, “I want to see him upon an urgent private matter.”
“Do you have a card?”
Mason said impatiently, “Tell him Perry Mason, a lawyer, would like to see him at once.”
The woman said, “Wait here, please,” turned on her heel and marched with slow, deliberate steps down a corridor, pushed open a door and banged it shut behind her, the explosive sound of the closing door conveying definite disapproval.
Mason had been standing for almost a minute when she returned, coming toward him with the same slow, deliberate steps — heavy-footed, wooden-faced.
She waited until she had assumed exactly the same position which she had been in when Mason first saw her — evidently her answering-the-door stance. “The doctor will see you.”
Mason followed her back down the corridor, through the door and into a small, book-lined room, near the center of which, in a huge black leather chair, Dr. Jefferson Macon was stretched out, completely relaxed.
“Good evening,” he said. “Please be seated. Pardon me for not getting up. The exigencies of my profession are such that I must ruin my own health safeguarding the health of others. If I had a patient who lived the life I do, I’d say he was committing suicide. As it is, I have been forced to make it a rule to relax for half an hour after each meal... Kindly state what it is you wish. Be brief. Don’t be disappointed if I show no reaction whatever. I’m training myself to relax completely and shut out all extraneous affairs.”
Mason said, “That’s fine. Go ahead and relax all you want. Did Milicent Hardisty spend all the night here last night, or just part of it?”
Dr. Macon jerked himself into a rigid sitting posture. “What — what’s that?”
He was, Mason saw, a man approaching fifty, firm-fleshed, steady-eyed, slender. Yet there was in the man’s face that grayish look of fatigue which comes to those who are near the point of physical exhaustion from the strain of overwork.
Mason said, “I wanted to know whether Milicent Hardisty spent the entire night here or only part of it.”
“That’s presumptuous. That’s a dastardly insinuation! That—”
“Can you answer the question?” Mason interrupted.
“Yes, of course. I can answer it.”
“Then what’s the answer?”
“I see no reason for giving you any answer.”
Mason said, “She’s been arrested.”
“Milicent — arrested? You mean the authorities think — why, that’s shocking!”
“You knew nothing of it?” Mason asked.
“I certainly did not. I had no idea the police would be so stupid as to do anything of the sort.”
Mason said, “There’s some circumstantial evidence against her.”
“Then the evidence has been misinterpreted.”
“Go right ahead,” Mason said, motioning toward the deep cushions of the chair. “Lie right back and relax. I’ll just ask questions. You keep on relaxing.”
Dr. Macon continued to sit bolt upright.
Mason said, “Everyone’s acted on the assumption that Hardisty’s death occurred early in the evening. Quite possibly ten or fifteen minutes before deep dusk. A report’s just come in from the autopsy surgeon. They held it up until they could make a double check, because it didn’t agree with what the police thought were the facts.”
Dr. Macon stroked the tips of his fingers across his cheek. “May I ask what the report indicated?”
“Death between seven and ten-thirty,” Mason said. “Probably, around nine.”
“Did I understand you to say probably around nine o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Then that — then Milicent couldn’t possibly have been connected with it.”
“Why?”
“She was... she was home at that time, wasn’t she?”
“How do you know?”
Dr. Macon caught himself quickly and said, “I don’t. I was only asking.”
“What time were you up there?”
“Where?”
“Up at the Blane cabin.”
“You mean that I went up there?”
Mason nodded.
Dr. Macon said somewhat scornfully, “I’m afraid I don’t appreciate your connection with the case, Mr. Mason. I know who are are, of course. I would like to meet you under more favorable — and I may say, more friendly — circumstances; but I am afraid you are definitely barking up the wrong tree. I am, of course, enough of a psychologist to appreciate the technique of a cross-examination in which startling questions are propounded without warning to an unsuspecting witness and—”
Mason interrupted him to say, apparently without feeling, “I may be mistaken.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so.”
“Whether I am or not,” Mason said, “depends on the tires on your automobile.”
“What do you mean?”
“An automobile left tracks up at the Blane cabin. I don’t think the significance of those tracks has occurred to the police — as yet. The Los Angeles deputies took it for granted the tracks were made by the local authorities. It evidently hasn’t occurred to the local authorities to check up on them.”
“What about them?”
“They were the tracks of new tires.”
“What if they were?”
Mason smiled. “Perhaps in your position, Doctor, you haven’t as yet appreciated the seriousness of tire rationing, and therefore have dismissed it from your mind.”
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Oh, yes you do. You’re stalling for time, Doctor. You recently had two new tires put on the back wheels of your automobile. Undoubtedly you had to get those tires through the tire rationing board. There’s a complete record of installation, application for purchase, and all that. As soon as I saw the new tire marks, it occurred to me that I was dealing with a police car. When I found out it couldn’t have been a police car, I simply started running down the other angles. It isn’t everyone who could possibly have two brand-new tires on his automobile, you know.”
“And that investigation brought you to me?”
Mason nodded.
“I suppose you realize,” Dr. Macon said, with frigid formality, “that you are making a most serious charge.”
“I haven’t made any charge yet but I’m going to make one in a minute — as soon as you quit stalling around.”
“Really, Mr. Mason, I think this is uncalled for.”
“So do I. I’m trying to help my client.”
“And who is your client, may I ask?”
“Milicent Hardisty.”
“She has retained you?”
“Her father did.”
“She is — you say she is charged with—”
“Murder.”
“I can’t believe it possible.”
Mason looked at his watch. “You’ve got to start seeing people at nine o’clock, Doctor. Time’s limited. I took a short cut getting here. I saw the tracks of two new tires and jumped at conclusions. The officers will go at it more methodically. They can’t afford to play hunches. They’ll probably make a cast of the tire marks, check with the tire rationing board on all permits for new tires, check with dealers for sales, and eventually they’ll get here. I’m simply leading the procession.”