Dialing the unlisted number of his private office, he waited until he heard Della Street’s voice.
“Hello, Della,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve looked the place over. She’s out somewhere in her car. I’m going to try and find that notebook.”
“I was afraid you’d do something like that. How long will you be?”
“Not long.”
She lowered her voice and said, “Mr. Argyle’s in the waiting room. He’s having kittens.”
“What’s happening?”
“Apparently his conscience is bothering him.”
“You don’t think he wants to retract any of the statements he made?”
“Apparently not.”
“How long has he been there?”
“He says he left his place immediately after you talked with him. He’s really worried about something. He tells me he couldn’t talk freely with you when you were there and he’s very anxious to see you now.”
“Why couldn’t he talk freely?”
“He didn’t say.”
“There’s only one reason I can think of, his chauffeur and butler was present.”
“Well, why didn’t he simply send the man out?”
“I don’t know. There’s something strange about that relationship.”
Della said, “The chauffeur was down there sitting at the wheel of the Buick when I came in. Mr. Argyle went down right afterwards to tell him he needn’t wait. That was when I told him I didn’t know when you’d be in. Argyle says he’s going to wait, no matter how long it is.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “I’m on my way, Della. Try and hold Argyle there.”
Mason hung up the phone, walked rapidly up the street to the entrance of the apartment house, used his key to open the outer door, ran up the stairs to the second floor, made certain that the second floor corridor was empty, and then walked rapidly back to apartment 208.
Mason knocked, and received no answer.
He made another quick survey of the corridor, then quietly inserted his key in the door, clicked back the lock and, opening the door, stepped swiftly inside the apartment.
Lights were on in the apartment. The desk was open. The upper right-hand pigeonhole was empty. Both the notebook and the gun had disappeared.
Mason gave an exclamation of annoyance, took two steps toward the bedroom, then stopped.
From where he was then standing, he could look through the half-open bedroom door, across the lighted bedroom and through an open door into a bathroom.
A girl was standing in the bathtub behind a shower curtain, and evidently had just shut off the water.
A white enameled bathroom stool was standing beside the bathtub. On this stool was a blued-steel revolver, squat, ominous and ugly.
As Mason stood watching the silhouette of the woman against the shower curtain, a naked arm dripping with water reached around the end of the curtain.
The wet hand closed about the gun.
Mason swiftly stepped back out of the range of vision.
“Hello,” he called. “Anybody home?”
“Who... who’s there?”
“Hello,” Mason called. “This is Perry Mason.”
“Oh... are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“I was taking a shower. How did you get in?”
“I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I pushed against the door and it came open.”
“Oh,” she said, “sometimes that latch doesn’t click. Just sit down, Mr. Mason, and make yourself at home for a few minutes, but you’d better close that door into the bedroom. I’m definitely not decent.”
“I have to see you,” Mason said, “right away.”
She laughed. “Not right away.”
“There isn’t any time to waste,” Mason told her.
“My, but you’re terribly impatient. Close that outer door, will you please, Mr. Mason, and make sure it’s locked this time. And now the bedroom door, please. I’ll be with you in a second or two, just as soon as I dry myself and put on a housecoat.”
He closed the bedroom door, made certain the outer door was locked, then went over to the desk. After going through the contents for some ten seconds, he could find no sign of the notebook he had seen earlier in the day.
He crossed back to the chair by the table and waited.
After some four or five minutes the door from the bedroom opened. Lucille Barton, wearing a housecoat of dark velvety material which outlined the curves of her figure, came gliding toward him.
Mason arose to meet her.
She hesitated a moment, then, smiling a full-lipped smile, gave him her hand.
Mason drew her to him and put his arm around her.
“Why, Mister Mason, I didn’t expect this of you.”
Mason’s hands moved swiftly.
“Why, Mr. Mason, what are you looking for?”
“At the moment,” Mason said, “I’m looking for a gun.”
“Oh.” Her voice showed a very definite change of expression.
“Where is it?” Mason asked.
She said, “You saw me, didn’t you, Mr. Mason? You saw me through the shower curtain.”
“I saw the gun on the bath stool,” Mason said. “Where is it?”
“In my bedroom in my handbag.”
“Let’s go take a look at it.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Well get it.”
“What’s the matter, Mr. Mason? Don’t you trust me?”
“No.”
“Why, Mr. Mason, what’s come over you?”
Mason said, “I’m getting cautious, that’s all.”
“Why, Mr. Mason,” she said laughing, “that’s what Arthur Colson says about me. He says I’m too cautious.”
“And what,” Mason asked, “brought up that subject of conversation when you were talking with him?”
Her light laughter was her only answer. She opened the door, led the way into the bedroom and said, “Honestly, Mr. Mason, this is terribly unconventional.”
She moved over toward the bed, suddenly grabbed for the handbag.
Mason beat her to it.
She said sharply, “Mr. Mason, don’t you take that gun away from me. Don’t you try to...”
“What do you want a gun for?” Mason asked.
“For protection.”
Mason took the gun out of the handbag, pulled the catch which enabled him to open the cylinder and slipped the cartridges into his pocket. Having done that, he snapped the cylinder back into place, returned the empty gun to her purse.
“Why, Mr. Mason, you mustn’t do that.”
Mason said, “Let’s talk.”
“But we are talking — you’re not listening.”
“Where did you get this gun?”
“It was given to me.”
“By whom?”
“Mr. Hollister... No, I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask me.”
“How long have you had it?”
“For two or three weeks.”
“Why did Hollister think you needed it?”
“That’s... that’s something I can’t tell you, Mr. Mason.”
Mason said, “Let’s start getting a few things straight, Lucille. I don’t like to have anyone try to slip something over on me.”
“No,” she said, “I presume not.”
“You told me that you were engaged to Mr. Hollister.”
“Yes, I’m going to marry him.”
“Where is he now?”
“You mean right now?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. Up in the northern part of the state somewhere.”
“You don’t know where? He doesn’t call you?”
“No. You see I don’t have a telephone, Mr. Mason. That’s the bad part of this old-fashioned apartment house. There’s no way he can call me. He’ll drop me a letter. There’s probably one in the mail now.”