"Do the police know about those embezzlements?"
"No, but they will."
Harry McLane turned from the window.
"Listen," he said, "don't let this guy kid you, Sis. He knows who killed Basset, or, if he doesn't, he's a damn fool, but he'd like to make a nice fee for himself putting me on the spot. We're finished with this guy right now. The more you let him talk to me the more of a frameup he's going to pull on me."
Mason said slowly, "Listen, Harry, you've pulled that line two or three times. You know it's a lie. But if you've got any sense, you must know that you've got to have the answers to these questions before the police find out about you."
"Don't worry about the police," the boy sneered. "You tend to your knitting and I'll tend to mine."
"You paid Basset in cash?" Mason asked.
"Yes."
"What did he do with the cash?"
"Put it in the pigskin wallet he carries in his coat pocket. You ask his wife about it. She'll tell you he always had the wallet in his pocket."
"It wasn't there when the police found the body, Harry."
"I can't help that. It was there when I paid him the money."
"And you didn't get a receipt?"
"No."
"There was no one present?"
"No, of course not."
"And you can't tell us where you got the money?"
"I can, but I won't."
"Does anyone know that you had that money?"
"That's none of your business."
Perry Mason's telephone rang. He scooped up the receiver. Della Street said, "Paul Drake's on the line. He's got some information that I think you should have."
Mason said, "Yes, Paul. What is it?"
The detective's voice said, "I'm going to talk low, Perry, because I don't want anyone else in the office to hear what I'm telling you, and telephone receivers sometimes play tricks when a chap talks too loud… Now, listen… The police are getting ready to pull a whole bunch of fast ones. They've found out a lot of things. Your man, Brunold, has been spilling information. They've had experts check up on the typewritten note that was in the machine on Basset's desk.
"Now, you know typewriting is just as distinctive as handwriting. The police criminologists say the message on the piece of paper which was in the typewriter on Basset's desk hadn't been written on that typewriter. They've been looking the house over, to find the typewriter that it was written on. They located it, in Mrs. Basset's bedroom. It's a Remington Portable that she used for personal correspondence.
"What's more, the experts can tell, by the even impression the letters made, that the thing was written by someone who used a touch system—a professional stenographer. You remember what I told you about Mrs. Basset having been a secretary."
Perry Mason frowned thoughtfully at the telephone transmitter.
"Have you located her yet, Paul?" he asked.
"Not yet, but I picked up this information from one of the boys who had been in touch with a newspaper man. I thought you should have it."
"Yes," Mason said, "I'm glad you gave it to me. Try and locate her just as quickly as you can."
He dropped the receiver back into place and turned to stare moodily at young McLane.
"Harry," he said, "you told me that someone who was very close to Hartley Basset was going to intercede to keep you from going to jail."
"Oh, forget it!" McLane said.
Mason turned to Bertha McLane and said, "I gave you a paper with my telephone number on it—the number of my apartment, where you could reach me after office hours. What did you do with it?"
Harry McLane took a quick step forward and said, "Don't…"
"Gave it to Harry," she said.
Harry McLane sighed. "You didn't have to tell him that," he said.
Mason turned back to the young man. "What did you do with it, Harry?"
"Kept it in my pocket for a while."
"And then what?"
"I don't know. Why the hell should I remember all those little things? I threw it away, I guess. I didn't have any more need to call you after I paid the old buzzard off. There wasn't any reason why I should carry your telephone number around with me. What did you want me to do, seal it up in a pickle jar so it would keep?"
"That piece of paper," Mason said, "was found in the corridor in front of Mrs. Basset's bedroom."
Sheer surprise twisted young McLane's face into a spasm of expression. "It couldn't have been," he said, then, after a moment, with a look of cunning in his eyes, said, "Well, what if it was?"
"When I went out there," Mason went on, entirely disregarding young McLane's comment, "Mrs. Basset tried to intercede for you."
"Did she?" Harry asked tonelessly.
"Did you know she was going to do that?"
"Of course not. I'm not a mind reader."
"Mrs. Basset likes you, Harry?"
"How do I know?"
"Did you see her last night, before you saw Hartley Basset?"
Harry McLane hesitated and said, "Why?"
"You might as well tell me that," Mason said. "The police certainly can find out that much. The servants were in the house and…"
"I'm not going to tell you any more about her. Leave her out of it."
"Had you ever been in her room?"
"Sure, on business."
"Was there a typewriter in her room?"
"I think so."
"A Remington Portable?"
"I guess so."
"Had you ever used it?"
"Sometimes when I was working there and she had social letters to get out she'd dictate them to me."
"Did Hartley Basset suggest that she do that?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do, Harry. Tell us the truth."
"Hartley Basset didn't know anything about it."
"Why did you do it, if it wasn't a part of the duties of your employment?"
"Because she was a good scout and I liked her, and because old Basset was grinding her down."
"So you sympathized with her?"
"Yes."
"And wrote letters for her?"
"Yes, sometimes she'd have neuritis in her right arm."
"Was there a portable typewriter on the desk in front of Hartley Basset when you called on him?"
"Sure. He had his own typewriter there that he makes notes on. Sometimes he dictates stuff and sometimes he pounds it out himself."
"He doesn't have a touch system, does he—just a twofinger huntandpeck system?"
"That's all."
"But you have a touch system?"
"Of course."
"Did you know," Perry Mason asked, staring steadily at Harry McLane, "that the note that was found in the typewriter on Basset's desk, stating that he was going to commit suicide, was not, in fact, written on that typewriter at all, but was written on the typewriter which was in Mrs. Basset's room, and that it was written by a professional typist who used the touch system?"
Harry McLane flung himself toward the exit door.
"Come on, Bertha," he said; "let's get the hell out of here."
She got to her feet, stood staring at Perry Mason, then at her brother.
"Harry," she said, "you know Mr. Mason is trying to help you, and…"
"Aw, nuts, don't be a sucker. I only came here because you wanted me to. He's looking for a fall guy, I tell you."
Bertha McLane turned to Perry Mason and said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Mason, that Harry feels that way. I hope you'll accept my apology…"
"Apology, hell!" Harry McLane interrupted. "Don't be a sucker!"
He pushed his way over toward Mason's desk and said, "You've been asking a lot of questions. Now let me ask you some. Are you representing Brunold?"
"Yes," Mason said, "I'm representing him. I presume it amounts to that."
"And Mrs. Basset?"
"She has consulted me."
"And Dick Basset?"
"Not directly."
"But through his mother?"