"I don't know… No, I can't answer questions."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what to say."
"When will you know what to say?"
"After I've talked with Dick again. I must talk with him once more."
Mason tapped her knee with his forefinger.
"Did you kill him?" he asked.
"No."
"Did Dick?"
"No."
"Why do you want to talk with Dick then?"
"Because I'm afraid they'll find out who did kill him… Oh, I can't talk about it. Please leave me alone."
"Just one question," Mason said, "and tell me the God's truth. Did you kill him?"
"No."
"Can you prove you didn't if it comes to a pinch?"
"Yes. I think so."
"All right. There's only one way to keep the police and the newspaper people from turning you wrong side out. Tell them you are too upset to answer questions. They'll go right ahead and ask them anyway. Then you start in getting hysterical. Tell them any, thing. Contradict yourself every few minutes. Say you saw your husband an hour before the shooting, then say it was a week before the shooting—that you can't remember having seen him for a month. Make wild statements. Say there were voices that warned him that the serpent said he would be killed.
"In other words act crazy. Let your voice get more and more shrill. Keep telling them absurdities. Make a nuisance of yourself. Scream, shout, laugh, have hysterics. Do you understand?"
"Yes'" she said; "I think I do. But won't it be dangerous?"
"Of course, it'll be dangerous, but not half as dangerous as trying to explain things and getting caught in a police trap. Remember now, don't do this unless you're innocent and can prove yourself innocent if it comes to a showdown. And don't be conservative in your statements. Make them sound so absurd you'll seem either drunk or crazy, and throw in a lot of screams and laughter.
"In that way they'll figure you're a nuisance and you'll rate a hypodermic. After they've once drugged you, you play possum. When you wake up, pretend to be groggy. Talk thick. Slur your words together, close your eyes and drop off to sleep between words.
"That'll stall 'em along until I can get a line on…"
The door opened. Sergeant Holcomb of the Homicide Squad jerked his head to Perry Mason.
"You," he said.
Mason strolled nonchalantly into the room.
"What do you know about this?"
"Nothing very much."
"You never do," Holcomb said wearily. "Suppose you tell us how much 'not very much' is?"
"I came out here," Perry Mason said, "to take up a business matter with Hartley Basset."
"What was the business matter?"
"It related to a matter of accounting between Basset and a former employee."
"Who was the former employee?"
"My client."
"What's his name?"
"I'll have to get his permission before I can tell you that."
"What did you do when you got here?"
"I found a scene of some excitement."
"What was the matter?"
"You'll have to ask the others; I don't know. It seems there'd been some friction between Hartley Basset and his son, Dick Basset, and there was a young lady who had been hurt."
"What had hurt her?"
"Someone had struck her, she said."
"Oh, hot" Holcomb said. "Who struck her?"
"She didn't know."
"How did it happen she didn't know?"
"She'd never seen the man before."
"What became of her?"
"I took the liberty of sending her to a place where she could be quiet until morning."
"You did what?"
Perry Mason lit a cigarette and said easily, "Sent her some place where she could be quiet."
"You had a crust, doing that."
"Why?"
"Did you know there was a murder case here?"
Perry Mason raised his eyes and said in surprise, "Good heavens, no!"
"Well, you know it now."
"Why," Mason said, "who was murdered?"
Sergeant Holcomb laughed mockingly.
"For a guy that's been around as much as you have, you have to get hit over the head with a club in order to recognize a murder when you see one."
"Hartley Basset shot himself," Perry Mason said.
"Oh, yeah?" Sergeant Holcomb countered. "You're telling me, I suppose."
"Didn't he?" Mason inquired.
"He did not."
"But the note that was in his typewriter said he did."
"Anyone can write a note on a typewriter."
"He put a blanket and a quilt around the gun, so as to muffle the sound of the shot."
"Why?" Holcomb asked.
"So as not to disturb the household. I suppose."
"And why didn't he want to disturb the household?"
"Consideration, I suppose."
"Baloney! A man who's committing suicide knows he's going to be discovered. He doesn't care. A man who's committing murder is the one who cares about having an opportunity to get away before he's discovered. And a man who's killing himself doesn't use three guns to do the job with."
"Three guns!" Mason exclaimed.
"Three guns," Sergeant Holcomb said. "One on the floor, in the open, one concealed under the quilt and blanket, one that Basset was carrying in a spring holster under his armpit. And that gun hadn't been disturbed. If Basset had wanted to kill himself, why wouldn't he have used his gun, instead of going to the trouble of getting another gun to do the job with?"
"Which gun did the killing?" Mason asked.
Sergeant Holcomb smiled patronizingly.
"Naughty, naughty," he said. "I'm asking the questions."
Mason shrugged his shoulders.
"Where did you send this jane that got rapped over the head?"
"Where she could be quiet."
"What place?"
"If I told you the place," Mason said. "it would cease to be a place where she could be quiet."
"Listen," Holcomb said, his voice almost choking with rage, "this is a murder case. Does that mean anything to you?"
"Yes," Perry Mason said; "I think it does."
"You bet it does," Holcomb told him. "We want to question that girl. It may mean discovering the identity of the murderer. Now, you kick through, brother, and tell me where she is, and make it snappy. You've got just one chance."
"She's at my office," Mason told him.
"Why did you send her there?"
"Because I thought she needed an opportunity to collect herself. At the time, I didn't have an idea Basset had been murdered. I thought, of course, it was suicide."
"And is that very efficient secretary of yours at your office?" Holcomb asked.
"Why, of course," Mason said; "someone had to be there to let the young woman in."
Holcomb's face darkened. "In that way," he said, "you get a chance to get a statement from the only material witness before the police even have a chance to question her."
Mason shrugged his shoulders and said evenly, "And if you'd got to her first you'd have locked her up so no one could ever have found out what her story was until she was put on the witness stand. That is the way you like to play the game. But I assure you, my dear Sergeant, I only sent her where she could be quiet because I thought it was a case of suicide. As soon as you told me it was murder, you'll have to admit I gave you her location."
Someone snickered.
Holcomb whirled to one of the men.
"Telephone headquarters," he said, "and tell them to pick up that girl at Perry Mason's office. Smash the doors down if you have to. She's a material witness. Tell them Mason's getting a shorthand report of her story. Give that secretary ten minutes more with her and there won't be any case."
Perry Mason said with dignity, "Have you chaps any more questions to ask of me?"