“No, I’m going to stay with you and see that you get into some dry clothes. Otherwise you’ll put off changing until after you’ve seen Drake. And, for your information, Chief, there’s a very nasty, jagged tear in the back of your coat.”
“That confounded wall,” Mason said. “It certainly was armed to the teeth with barbed wire and broken glass.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” she told him.
“At least take a hot shower,” Mason said.
She laughed. “Just get that water hot and use plenty of Bacardi, Chief.”
“In yours,” he said, “not in mine. When I’m driving I’m sober.”
She hurried into the bedroom. Mason went to the kitchenette, fixed a hot buttered rum for Della Street, a hot, black coffee for himself. Ten minutes later they were on the road to Mason’s apartment, where the lawyer hurriedly changed into dry clothes. Then he and Della Street went to Paul Drake’s office, which was on the same floor of the building where Mason had his offices.
Paul Drake, tall, quizzical and quiet, looked up in annoyance. “It took you two long enough to get here,” he said. “The police have given me a bad time. They don’t like it.”
Mason said, “Go ahead. Get the call through.”
Drake sighed with relief, put the call through to the stolen-car department, said, “This is Paul Drake. My client who wanted to know about that car, Number CVX-266, just came in. I’ll put him on the line. Here he is now.”
Mason took the phone from Drake, said, “Hello. Perry Mason talking... That’s right, Perry Mason, the lawyer.”
“Now, what’s the idea of the lawyer?” the voice at the other end of the line complained. “We’re trying to trace a stolen car and we keep getting a run-around.”
“No run-around at all,” Mason said. “I had a client who called me in connection with an automobile, CVX 266. The car had gone out of control, skidded into a private driveway and turned over. He had picked up the young woman who was driving the car and wanted to know whether he should report the accident to the police.”
“Anyone injured?”
“Apparently not.”
“That’s a stolen car.”
“So I understand — now.”
“Well, where is it?”
“It’s lying in the grounds of Meridith Borden, a public relations expert. He has a country estate about twelve miles out of town, and—”
“I know the place. You mean the one with the wall around it?”
“That’s the one.”
“And the car’s there?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, it sure took us long enough to get the information,” the officer said irritably. “Why didn’t you let us know so we could pick up the car?”
“I didn’t know it was that important,” Mason said. “I just thought it would be a good idea to trace the registration.”
“All right. Who’s this client of yours?”
“That,” Mason said, “is a confidential matter. I can’t divulge the name of a client without the client’s permission. I can, however, tell you where to recover the automobile, and I have done so.”
“Now look here,” the officer said, “we’re trying to find out about a stolen car, and—”
“And I’ve told you where the car is,” Mason said. “I have no other information I am at liberty to give. You’re interested in a car. I’m interested in a client.”
Mason hung up the phone.
He grinned at Della Street, said, “Go on home, Paul. If anyone tries to get tough with you, put the blame on my shoulders. I’m going to leave the car parked down here in the parking lot, and Della and I are going down to the Purple Swan, have about three of their hot buttered rums and go home in a taxi. I won’t drive when I’ve been drinking, and I need a drink.
“Get out of here. If you stick around you may get—”
Paul Drake lunged for his hat.
“Save the rest of it,” he said. “I’m halfway down in the elevator right now.”
Chapter Four
Perry Mason latchkeyed the door of his private office, tossed his hat on the shelf of the hat closet, grinned at Della Street and said, “Hi, Della. How did you recover from last night — okay?”
“Okay,” she told him.
“No sniffles?”
“No sniffles, no sneezes, no sinuses.”
“Good girl.”
“Paul Drake telephoned a few minutes ago and said he wanted to have you call just as soon as you came in.”
“Give him a ring,” Mason said. “The police have probably been giving him a bad time again.”
Della Street picked up the telephone, said to the switchboard operator, “Tell Paul Drake Mr. Mason is in now.”
Mason lit a cigarette, regarded the pile of mail on his desk with some distaste, pushed it to one side, said, “We haven’t heard anything from Ansley this morning, have we?”
“Not a word.”
Drake’s code knock sounded on the office door.
“Well,” Della said, “I guess Paul Drake decided to come down in person.”
“That means he wants something,” Mason said, grinning. “Open the door, Della, and let’s see what it is.”
Della Street opened the door, and Paul Drake, his face an unsmiling mask of grave concern, entered the office, said, “Hi, everybody. What the hell were you two doing last night?”
“Now that,” Mason said, “has all the earmarks of being an impertinent question.”
“I trust you weren’t out at Meridith Borden’s,” Drake said.
“We reported that a car had swerved into Borden’s driveway and overturned,” Mason said. “Isn’t that enough to satisfy the police?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” Drake asked.
“Heard what?”
“It was announced on the radio on the newscast at eight-thirty.”
“What was?” Mason asked.
“Meridith Borden, noted public relations expert, was found dead in the palatial residence on his country estate at seven o’clock this morning by his housekeeper. He was lying on the floor in his photographic room and had been shot through the heart, apparently with a revolver.”
“Police find any weapon?”
“No weapon, no indication of suicide. On the other hand, no indication of a struggle. However, shortly after eleven o’clock last night a burglar alarm was turned in from the Borden estate, at least from the grounds. Police found indications that some unauthorized persons had been in the grounds and had probably managed to get over the wall.”
“Was the burglar alarm connected with police headquarters anywhere?” Mason asked.
“No. A passing motorist heard the siren of the alarm and saw the floodlights go on. Everything was normal at midnight when a sheriff’s patrol car made a regular run by the place, so someone must have turned off the lights and reset the alarm.
“The estate is protected by a masonry wall covered with broken glass and barbed wire on top. There are huge iron gates protecting the driveway, and there’s an electric timing system by which those gates are automatically closed at eleven o’clock each night. A bell or gong gives a warning sound one minute before the gates close. Then the gates clang shut, and after that the only way anyone can get in is by telephoning from the outer gate.”
Mason gave Drake’s statement thoughtful consideration.
“What do the police say about it?” Mason asked at length.
“They’re not saying anything just yet. They found some tracks in the damp soil around that automobile you reported, indicating that people had been milling around it, evidently looking for something.”
“Indeed,” Mason said.
“Someone had climbed over the wall,” Drake went on. “Some garments had evidently been thrown over the top of the wall covering the broken glass and barbed wire, and then people had climbed over. Police are inclined to think there were three people, and that one of them was a woman.”